


there's nothing you can do

by bloody_blade0



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anxiety, Art, Artist Louis, Bookstore AU, Dark Past, Depressed Louis, Gay Sex, Harry is in love, I have no idea, IF EASILY TRIGGERED BY ANYTHING REMOTELY VIOLENT OR DISTURBING PLEASE DON'T READ, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Indie Music, M/M, Mob Boss Harry, Oblivious Louis, Painter Louis, Photographer Harry, Photography, Poet Louis, There might be sex, Trauma, What's new, and new tattoos and stuff, basically louis is perfect, dark/sweet harry, i made up new people, i'm a freak bear with me, if you know what i mean, niall is a sweetie, okay who am i kidding, poetry au, posh, self harm (ish), there are people around, there'll be sex, there's no way in hell i'm going to leave zayn out of this, they're both out, they're versatile, totally ooc, ziam mentioned, zouis brotp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2018-10-26 14:35:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 29,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10788690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloody_blade0/pseuds/bloody_blade0
Summary: Looking at something so delicate and stunning, Harry felt breathless.He was a bouquet of pain, secrets and wild flowers.He was renaissance.He was beauty.He was sadness and silence yet there was nothing silent about him.He was Louis, he was painfully beautiful and Harry never felt more out of place, more inadequate to deal with the complexity of an universe fit in a body of fragile sharp bones and soft tones.oran au in which harry meets pale ocean eyes and wants to drown because everything is unfair when you're supposed to be a heartless bastard and stumble upon a creature that makes you //feel//





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So. Just let me know what you think, okay?  
> there will be some triggering content, but you know that already, you've read the tags.  
> like... self harm, depression, rape, darkdarkdark, painfully oblivious louis and stuff... poetry ish?  
> there will be so much poetry and words wrapped in twisted shapes, it'll lose the character and that's kind of the point.  
> just. let. me. know.  
> comments coz i'm an attention whore (:o

 

_If I could live a thousand times_

_If I could make a thousand tries_

_Maybe then I'd get it right_

_Imagine Dragons_

_Thief_

 

walking down the same place every day, at the same time never actually  _feels_ the same. every day there's a different atmosphere in the air, either because the weather is not as the previous day or because new, different people are joining the crowd. sometimes the streets are packed, mondays bussier than wednesdays, sunday slower than thursdays, and it's too easy to get lost. or in some cases, get crashed.  
but the crowd is good, the people, the endless mass of moving bodies gives off an impression of a single creature melted into one, breathing as one, moving forwards as one. 

he found comfort in joining others and moving along. it gave off an impression of actually getting somewhere, living the fast tempo that is characteristical for every urban creature. every urban creature whose soul wasn't trapped back in the dark ages, fighting things people have long ago defeated. living and breathing things no one seems to be interested in, because, who needs to quote lord byron to pay the bills?  
who needs to sit on the same bench, day after day for three years, and scribble in notebooks that look as if they were pulled from a museum, dust particles and old book smell never washing off? 

most people consider it unnatural to sit and watch other people, and if he were to tell anyone that he's written poetry about a girl whose life story he knew probably better than herself since he's been there minutes before her first encounter with current boyfriend who showed up with another girl the next day, taking her to a coffee shop next to the one his muse referred as to  _their place,_ he'd probably have a lifetime worth of restraining orders from half of london's population.

but, they have lead much more interesting lives than he did and since it isn't likely anyone is actually going to make a fabulous hollywood drama based on their lives, he figured he might as well be the one to appreciate their stories, stories often much more interesting than the ones that get a movie adaptation in which blonde shy girls fall for bad boys with a past that magically disappears when they realize she's worth living a decent life for.

isn't the old man who comes to sit by him every 3rd of the month on that specific bench to honour his brother who got shot in one of the protests for lgbtq rights back in the 60s more important than zack efron's frat parties?

isn't the autistic girl, macy, who comes with her mother almost every day, and makes flower crowns with exactly 5 dandelions for her mother and 3 for her own head as special as bella swan?

or the frowning girl who sat on the opposite side of the street, staring blankly at that one spot by the tree for whichever reason made her stop coming one day and made louis write about disappearance, lust, cowardice, tears and thick eyeliner she often put on, wasn't she struggling more than linsday lohan who tried to fatten her friend's arse in order to end up with her boyfriend? 

everyone has their own story, a story worth telling, laughing and crying over. 

everyone needs condolence, shoulder patting, hugs and acceptance.

louis was never much of a huger, having an immense touch phobia his therapist said was the product of a  _probable childhood trauma_ which was pure bullshit if you asked him, so he tried to give their suffering a meaning through words, the only way he knew how to deal with... anything really.

he learned at a very early age that words are a good way to describe everything, because there's a word explaining every single thing on this planet and louis wanted to do just that, give them all a definition, but doing it in only one word seemed unfair. 

but then again, life was unfair.

or maybe he was just not the one to judge that since he's never really experienced that. he's always had it easy and could only watch from behind the curtains what was happening to others. he reckoned that a world that's produced art, music and... people in general can't be that bad. 

a world with a niall horan in it can't be a bad place.

touchy niall, who's always smiling, cracking jokes and never batting an eyelash at louis' unresponsive existence. 

or zayn.

zayn, who's intuitive,  _cool,_ perfect even, at first glance. 

second glance as well. every time you look at him you'll see perfection, physical serenity. he was everything louis wasn't.

elegant, peaceful, intuitive, lovely.  _beautiful_ by all means. 

louis has told him that so many times. 

not exactly  _told_ to be precise, but zayn knew. 

he could read his meaningful glances full of appreciation and respect, admiration. hell, he could just  _read._

how many poems has louis wrote for him? 

he lost count. 

zayn probably didn't though. he kept them glued to the wall of his bedroom, on the bookshop doors, he even had some quotations tattooed.

louis supposed his first reaction shouldn't have been  _are you out of your fucking mind_ when zayn showed him the first one he tattooed, but zayn knew that was just louis being shocked at the sight of someone wanting his work to last, not just on paper but something as fragile and perfect as zayn malik's skin.

he didn't want to leave a trace, he was certain people wouldn't track his trails as he did while bruising through their behaviour patterns, like old books in niall's bookstore. 

lovely bookstore he never wanted to leave. 

books were his friends. just like niall who was too good to him by giving him a job which was just an excuse for him to be surrounded by whispers of dead writers, reading behind the counter, putting books on shelves he could reach considering it was a rather large bookstore with shelves one needed a ladder to reach. sometimes louis felt as if he was a hogwarts librarian.

minus all the magical abilities.

and a harry potter to ruin his books in order to save the world.

he might be the only one agreeing with madam pince about bringing back ancient torturing machines for those who massacred books.

respect for art and written word was one of the things he inherited from his father that he actually appreciated.

he also appreciated the fact that nial allowed him to browse through the books and sit around the bookshop instead of actually doing his job, but then again he was the one who basically kept the place running, not that niall knew that.

see, louis was always a rather poetic and gentle soul with a knack for creating beauty that brings others to their knees. 

he never knew what was the fuss with his writing and other pieces of art he created about since that was just him expressing his inner state of being.

of course, for publishing purposes some of it had to be cut out or shortened but the core that amazed his readers and brought niall's bookshop its fame, remained.

since zayn's father was a publisher, and the two of them have been friends since two years old, zayn upon realizing the scale of his talent had to tell his father who was amazed by a 16 year old prodigy. 

louis never needed the money, coming from a wealthy family, but later on it proved to be useful when he moved from his father and refused to recieve any possible compensation from his brother.

'come on, lou, don't be a stubborn arsehole. it's money, not a kidney, i promise, you won't owe me anything. besides, it's as yours as it is mine, you know that.'

louis gave him the silent treatment after that for almost a month until william decided to let go.

'suit yourself.' he pouted. 'i'll blame you later on when momma visits in my dreams and beats the hell out of me for being the worst big brother in history.'

'you'll be alright.' he has replied satisfied and he was right. it's not like william's been beating his head over it after their conversation. not like he had the time either and louis was happy about it. william had something to keep him busy, and busy william meant weightless louis. 

not that, besides countless meetings and 'business' trips all over the world his brother hasn't found the time to call him at least once a month to check on him, or send his bodyguard every now and then just to keep an eye on his little brother. 

after awhile louis stopped being bothered by it and he perfected the art of escaping big, bulky men's eyes shadowed by a pair of rather ugly sunglasses. 

it's not until zayn interfered that his brother stopped being a overprotective arse who considered the term privacy trivial.

zayn promised to keep louis safe whenever william wasn't around, promised to let him know if anything serious happened and sent him a signed copy of every single one of louis' books. louis made sure there was a drawing of a massive [cock](http://clipart-library.com/clipart/6Ty54eeyc.htm) on every single one of them, the terminology convenient coincidence with a myth their father read them when they were little, about a Viking tribe leader and all their rituals, among them animal sacrifice, cocks being that warrior's preference. 

that might be considered tough reading for some people, who consider Peter Pan to be much more appropriate for 7 year olds, but their father was a traditional man who believed no book or piece of human history could damage a person's mind, no matter how young they were. if nothing, that will prepare them for everything they ought to face in future. and no matter how unconventional his father's parenting methods were, louis wouldn't trade that part of his past for nothing. 

there were many of his father's friends who never payed attention to their children, their education was left to their mothers to deal with, find appropriate tutors who were willing to teach relatively young kids the wisdom of ancient philosophers since their posh parents wanted their heirs to be worthy of the empire they were leaving behind.

many of the kids hated it, at least those louis was friends with. if you could call them his friends.

he was never much of a people person, even at a young age.

his father approved all his friendships, louis being his preferred child between the two so he trusted him completely, always saying louis had a soul so beautiful and pure, it ought to be cherished and removed from the surroundings that aren't helping in the development of his artistic tendencies.

which, when he looks at it now, seems so fucking ironic he kind of wants to vomit. he doesn't know if he should pity himself or his father...

his father, respected among the group of his confidants for being bold, untouchable, ethereal, so wrong.

he smiled sadly at the thought of his death. no man like robert tomlinson should die the way he did. it was too simple for such a powerful man.

whenever louis read about mighty warrior kings of the past he always imagined them as his father. long legs, narrow waist, dark hair, piercing blue eyes and intellect to match. he could've lead armies on a horse, carrying a sword just as swiftly as sitting at a bargaining table, solving his kingdom's matters peacefully.

louis was never like his father, at least not physically. he always thought his father adored him because he resembled his mother who died when louis was 15. 

she wasn't there to see the fall of their family, thank gods. louis doubted she could bear everything that's happened. he hasn't, and they looked so much alike, so he supposed it would be the same.

sometimes he admired william and every trait he's inherited from their father. not every child would peacefully accept the fact that they have to carry on the tradition of their family business but william did. louis was so proud of him. 

whenever he thought of his brother he thought of gladiolus.

william always pretended to take offense at that, but louis knew it was just pretense. and he honestly couldn't help it. he connected everything he saw in nature together. 

why shouldn't people be connected to flowers?

they all come from the same substance, earth. 

so william was gladiolus and louis felt both honored and petrified when he asked him to paint a gladiolus so he could tattoo it on the side of his ribs.

zayn didn't mock him at all for doing a watercolour purple gladiolus on his heavy muscled body. At all. 

zayn was a dahlia in louis' opinion.

niall was jasmine.

his mother was a peony. 

and he couldn't help but smile sadly, now, thinking about his parents, years after they've been separated, years after he has stopped representing everything his father thought of him. he couldn't help but sink deeper in chair behind the counter of niall's sunny bookstore, at the thought of how unworthy he was, of their respect and admiration. anyone's admiration, really.

who was he?

who was the boy everyone observed with soft eyes, thinking he looked like a rose petal, easily carried through tree branches at the sight of slightest breeze. easily broken.

fragile beauty was fatal.

everyone wanted to peak behind the thin layer of marble of [the veiled virgin](http://archivalmoments.ca/2016/12/veiled-virgin/). 

no one wanted to deal with shattered pieces they might find underneath. and he couldn't blame them. 

people weren't perfect, so they could be mistaking him for something more than just a piece of trash he thought he was. knew he was. 

everything was too much, too much, he was too little.

_every tear spilled creates a hole deep in the ground that's echoing satan's children laugh and every laugh drums through my skull like a gong in a buddhist temple and i can see the monks coming through the door, crying at the sight of darkness near their source of light_

_their father, their compass and i feel dirty, pitiful, unworthy so i crawl away_

_i want to get out_

_but the hole i created near the temple drags me like a magnet and pulls towards it_

_so i think, of course, the hell is warm and there is fire and there is light i've never managed to find within and light is good and i am not_  
and this temple is light and sun is not that different from fire and what did my physics teacher say opposites attract and i'm negative always  
so the positivity of hell's heat is just perfect for me and i'll just go down and sit  
and sing with my brothers 

_since i'm His son as well_

_and it doesn't matter if they rip and bite at my flesh they'll do it better than i already do, i'll gladly help_

_it's what i deserve_

_and i enjoy_

_so please, please, please,_

_leave me to rot and spill my blood_

_please, please, please_

_don't kill me_

_but torment me by all means because_

_darkness is what i am and always_

_will be._


	2. Chapter 2

_I feel out of focus,_  
_Or at least indisposed_  
_As this strange weather pattern_  
_Inside me takes hold._  
_Each brave step forward,_  
_I take three steps behind._  
_It's mind over matter -_  
_Matter over mind._

_Sorrow, Sleeping At Last_

 

He knew it was cliche, but couldn't help but stare at the clouds every time he had the chance. 

The birds seemed so free and powerful, trees seemed so happy to be able to grow so high and touch them.. He wondered how that felt. Has anyone ever explained the texture of clouds? 

They seem soft, but so fragile. He feared that he would act like in every other situation where he had to act upon his feelings and express admiration. He remembered that time a few months back when Zayn took him to New York to see Eugene Onegin ballet drama adaptation, knowing he absolutely adored Roberto Bolle, the leading dancer who Louis thought, defied all laws of gravity and standard concepts of what a human could do with their body. Not to mention he was exceptionally beautiful, not just his slightly pronounced cheekbones or pale green eyes, or ruffled black hair,  _he_ was beautiful. The way he carried himself, his smile that seemed to come naturally at the right times, not smiling in a plastic way just to smile at the audience. He seemed genuine, talented and graceful. His performances brought tears to Louis' eyes and he wasn't ashamed to admit that. Zayn might've teased him about it if he didn't know how every outstanding artistic presentation made Louis' eyes glint with tears he didn't mind seeing because those were happy tears and Zayn was happy to see Louis cry happy tears. The other ones, not so much.

Louis blushed even now, thousands of miles away, sitting in Niall's bookstore, looking at the clouds, beautiful dancer not within seeing opus, at the memory of Zayn leading him by hand after the show towards the changing room where he had arranged Louis to  _meet_ the man. 

When Louis realized what was going on, it was too late to run. He was still feeling dizzy and teary and he thanked the gods for wearing a fancy tux with all those napkins he despised, being raised to know how to properly fold it and mock anyone who doesn't, he grabbed it and furiously wiped his eyes rubbing them until he supposed they've turned red and awful and he felt small and ugly, like always, standing in front of a smiling Apollo, next to Zayn who looked like a reincarnation of Adonis and he was just tiny Louis, a peasant from Yorkshire next to Greek deities and his life was so unfair.

He doesn't remember what he said, or what the man himself had said, were they talking at all, he had no idea. He had only a few seconds to compose himself and politely praise his performance, remembering to admire all his previous acts, talk about the play itself, the genius of Russian prodigies, careful not to disturb him for too long since he's only just gotten off the stage, energetic and sweaty but still insanely attractive. 

When they parted he waited until they were in the car to punch Zayn with all the strength he could manage, which wasn't strong at all considering he was a tiny, emotionally exhausted man who hadn't remembered to eat since that morning. 

Zayn laughed it off, saying Roberto was absolutely charmed and that Louis was exaggerating, which angered him even more but he could do nothing else except sit and hope never to see the man that close in person again or he might have a heart attack. Instagram stalking for the rest of his life it is, then.

He feared if he touched something so beautiful, it might burst into divine particles it was made of. He was afraid that the man was made of fluffy clouds that weren't close enough for a 172cm man to reach. 

 _Crystal tears and ashtray soul speak louder than cloud storms._ he scribbled on his arm with a pink sharpie that lay on the counter. It was positioned on the only unmarked part of his forearm. He made a mental note to fill that space as well. 

He hopped off the stool, making himself go sort the books in the fantasy section, stopping by the record shelf nevertheless, changing the music hoping to annoy Niall to the point where he might come down from the apartment that was just above the store, but there was no reaction. The idiot was probably asleep, Louis thought fondly.

The fantasy section long forgotten, Louis was standing, going through the vinyl, beaming at the sight of Lord Huron's Lonesome Dreams, humming under the breath as the serene music filled the cozy space, only a few people inside, one girl smiling at the sound of the music, then turning back to her book.

 _I'm goin' away for a long, long time_  
_I'm goin' away for a long, long time_  
  
_Lie where I land, let my bones turn to sand_  
_I was born on the lake and I don't want to leave it_  
_Every eye on the coast ever more_  
_Will remember the sight of the ghost on the shore_

 _Ghost on the shore_ Louis thought amusedly while he continued to browse. Teens who came in earlier demolished the pop section, leaving everything for him to sort, made him roll his eyes. Not at the genre, he had nothing against the upbeat tones, judging was more Zayn who mocked him sometimes, calling him a hipster, but at the mess. He was a messy person himself so he hated sorting other people's messes. That's why he kept Zayn around. 

Sometimes he thought he doesn't appreciate Zayn enough. Why have the high forces burdened him with the gift of Zayn Malk's friendship knowing he could never repay it?

It would be enough for Louis if Zayn just stood at the center of a room while Louis stared and wrote sonnets about the shadow his eyelashes cast on the golden skin of his cheeks. He would be a proper gentleman about it too, he wouldn't just  _stare_ and make Zayn uncomfortable. Of course he would hide behind someone or something, like a tall bulky man or a tall, wide shelf. 

Zayn, his maroon dahlia, whom he always imagined as a Persian warrior or a Greek poet's inspiration, had not just beautiful appearance, he had also a beautiful soul.

Yes, how eloquent Louis, are you really a person who has published ten poetry books translated to 30 languages, Zayn would say. But hey, he found that simplicity and brevity were more than enough sometimes. Especially when describing someone who upon being conceived acted like a magnet for every good thing in his parents' DNA. 

Sometimes, when Louis was particularly in awe, he dared to voice his thoughts and Zayn would thank him but nevertheless balance it out with a sarcastic remark like,

'Dude, you literally sat down in the park yesterday and admired a broken tree branch. Should I feel as special as  _the bond of oxygen factory that's been broken by its stronger brothers to be replaced with a scar on their mother's body, because a scar is better than a death of the entire tree since that's how living in a system feels, no one values individual beauty?_ '

'I'm amazed with your memory, you're more than just a pretty face, Malik.' Louis teased, 'and to answer your question, yes, you should feel honored and privileged to even exist in the same universe as something that in union with other parts of nature creates perfect surroundings for life to bloom.' 

'You're so full of shit.' Zayn smiled fondly.

'No, I just like to think your mother looked at the Corona Borealis constellation while giving birth so that's why your eyes have tiny golden dots in the same pattern.' he said as a matter of factly.

'First of all, my mother gave birth to me in a hospital, west wing Bradford Memorial Hospital [a/n I have no idea] in January,-'

'I know when's your birthday Zayn.' Louis rolled his eyes.

'Second of all... You, should not be able to know the pattern of my dots considering you're blind as a bat and we're sitting three meters apart- and stop looking at me like a creep!'

Louis laughed, crossing his eyes and growling like a zombie.

Zayn laughed as well, ruffling his hair playfully.

That's how it felt with Zayn all the time. Louis would spill his soul out, rip his skin in pieces and Zayn would collect all that and make something Louis thought was beautiful just because Zayn did it. He was the one who never asked why Louis didn't come to work, he was the one who upon seeing he was in a foul mood, left everything and everyone just so they could cuddle in Louis' dark room while listening to indie bands Zayn despised.

Maybe he clung to Zayn because Zayn was the only constant thing in his life, even above William. 

Thinking about how much he owed Zayn made him anxious so he had to take deep breaths and dig nails in the ink that covered bumps on his wrists.

Bumps Zayn prevented from becoming craters that would puke lava out and leave Louis' life spilling across the bathroom floor. 

Ink Zayn put there in order to make Louis hate himself less when seeing what he's tried to do and failed. 

_You can cover them but they'll never disappear._

_And neither will you._

_Because you don't deserve to disappear._

_It's relief and you don't deserve relief._

A voice from the dark depths of his mind spoke and he felt like he couldn't breathe. He stood by the shelf, gripping the wood firmly, hoping there would be a splinter, anything to make him feel the sharp relief he promised Zayn he wouldn't bring upon himself anymore.

Zayn.

Breathe for Zayn.

 _All who sail off the coast ever more_  
_Will remember the tale of the ghost on the shore_

He's a ghost, nothing but a shadow on the shore of life, watching people walking by, breathing vivid colours, laughing tropical smells, not giving a shit about his transparent existence. No one will remember the tale of him.

He was happy for them, but he was aware that he could never join them. Life and colours and tropical scents weren't for him.  
  
_I'm goin' away for a long, long time..._

If only he could go away...

Long time? Time and space are relative, right? When you hear  _long time_ there is a note of finality to it, a time that's going to pass, that's going to come to an end. A time after which he'll have to come back and he doesn't want to come back. He doesn't want to be present on the ghost shore. But... Time and space are relative, right?

 _Only for an observer who's not travelling by the speed of the light, Einstein._ he thought. Since he was travelling at the same speed as the sun rays that were illuminating the space behind him, the reflection from the window glass hitting his eyes making them water, it didn't matter if he was here or there, in space, in this room, in past or in the future, his mind can travel faster than time and his mind wasn't casting warm shadows. There were shadows, there were voices, none of them associated with light except with the speed they were crashing in his mind.  _Screw you, Einstein._

DId he just... 

He might tattoo the sun and moon on his hands.

Yes, he'll do that.

Niall would bitch about it being hipster as fuck but he'd do it anyway. He might design it as a yin yang sign just to annoy him, and sell a deep, meaningful Buddhist theory when in fact he sat down and drew a pattern to distract his mind from the panic attack and a discussion with a dead scientist. 

Yes. 

He was silently laughing as he sat again behind the counter, pulling out his journal and starting a [tattoo](https://ae01.alicdn.com/kf/HTB1YDrSJFXXXXb0XVXXq6xXFXXX9/Yoga-Dinding-Decal-Bulan-Matahari-Sinar-Matahari-Bintang-Sabit-Ganda-Etnis-Malam-Simbol-Yoga-Yin-yang.jpg), tapping his foot in a rhythm that was way too nervous for the Lullaby in the background.

He was in the process of breaking the yin to allow the sun rays to shine when he heard Zayn's footsteps and he hummed nervously without glancing up, his hands slightly trembling.

'Lou, you here?'

'Yeah, yeah...' he called from behind the counter, oblivious to everything around. He was outlining the stars, unaware of Zayn in front of him, staring amusedly.

 _You arrive along with the sun_  
_Where have you been darlin'? What have you done?_  
_You were out finding trouble again_  
_There's a fire in your eyes and there's blood on your hands_

'No there isn't.' Louis spoke without registering the fact that Zayn just sang a 'hipster' song and glanced at his hands. Did he cut himself without realizing?

He heard soft chuckling and lifted his eyes to see two Zayns.

No, not two Zayns. 

He was quite certain the world didn't have two Zayns. The world doesn't deserve two Zayns. Louis doesn't.

Was he seeing double? 

Was he hallucinating?

He tilted his head to see the other Zayn turning from the vinyl collection, approaching them and- hey.

That wasn't a Zayn.

There was a Zayn in front of him and there was a Not Zayn walking towards them. 

A Not Zayn he wouldn't have associated with Zayn in the first place if he saw more than a long black coat, one similar to the ones his Zayn wore. It was an expensive one, Louis knew there must've been animals killed for it to be made and frowned. 

Were there animals killed for the jeans the man wore? 

They seemed pretty normal, regular, black jeans with too many holes for Louis' taste, but then again, Louis' taste was... black. Let it be black and he's satisfied.

Or grey. Like the shirt the man wore. A grey shirt with black outlined owls on it.

Louis has seen many tattoo designs with that pattern. 

 _HipsterI_ an Irish accent screamed in his mind and he slapped it on the head.  _No judging!_ he scowled.

He could see Zayn coming behind him, resting his head on his shoulder, peaking at the drawing.

'What's up with the dark mood?' he whispered pointing at the black that surrounded yin he hadn't realized he did. Angry motions that split the paper in a few places.

'No dark mood.... I was just thinking about balancing it by drawing daisies on the other side, you know... a dark, acidic river threatening the serenity of yin and the daisies on the other side to symbolize that you can lure out beauty from a person at their worst?' 

He was so full of shit. 

Lucky he made a living out of it.

But he honestly couldn't bother Zayn right now, there has been a year since his last serious crisis and he knew Zayn was hopeful it won't happen in the future that often now that Louis started taking his meds. Or so Zayn thought.

He didn't. He didn't take the pills and he felt guilty about it, he did. He'll do it tonight. He _will_.

He could hear a mocking laugh in his head that was nothing like the happy Irish chuckle from moments earlier.

_He will._

'Hey, that's a lovely metaphor!' a voice spoke and Louis lifted his head in interest.

Not Zayn had a croaky voice, it was as if a thunder that billows across the dark skies on a stormy night illuminated a sunflower field. It was neither raspy or high pitched, it certainly didn't match the soft appearance of his baby face and big emerald orbs. 

Only when Zayn laughed it was that Louis realized he voiced his observation. 

He shrugged, it's not like he hasn't already creeped people out like that before.

'Not Zayn?' the real Zayn asked amusedly.

'That's how I named him in my head.' Louis spoke as if the other man wasn't present.

He was very much present and was looking at the two with an amused glint in his eye.

'You look like an [Erasmo](https://i2.wp.com/www.banglaviral.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/04/harry-styles-interview-about-sta.jpg?resize=480%2C300&ssl=1).' 

And he did, now when Louis thought about it. His hair was ruffled, living a life on its own, sharp angles of his face balanced with softness in green eyes he associated with clear springs in Northern Ireland with water that almost tasted sweet. His smile threatened to snap the joint between his upper and bottom jaw, and that was prevented with dimples that reminded Louis of holes in front of great fortifications that didn't allow enemies to pass when there was a threat in sight. It was a shame, really, he was convinced if Erasmo's head opened up there would be butterflies surging and everything would smell like spring because the boy would bleed honey.

'Well... Sorry to disappoint, but I'm just a Harry.'

'Hm.' Louis hummed.

'It doesn't matter, you can look like an Erasmo and be a Harry. I look like a Smeagol and I'm a Louis. Zayn here looks like an Adonis and he's just a Zayn. Not that Zayn isn't sort of exotic now that I think about it.'

Wasn't Zayn an exotic name? 

Zayn was half Pakistani after all. 

Louis always appreciated the fact that there was an endless supply of information and interesting facts on his palm. He supposed he was one of those people who used the internet and its magical abilities for something other than social networks. 

Sometimes he appreciated the mightly father Google more than his brother. So it was a reflex reaction to mute out everything in the background in search for an information. He could hear muffled voices coming from Harry and Zayn talking but didn't bother to pay attention. He always thought he would be a librarian or a man guarding important ancient scripts in one of his past lives. The browsing wouldn't be as fast as now, but he thought it had some sort of charm on itself. Back then he would probably have to go to a special section to look for Arabic names, if he were lucky enough to have such books in 13th century England, since his ancestors proved to be quite ignorant and bigoted for a nation that at one point in history had half of world's population under their supervision. 

He googled Zayn meaning in a matter of seconds and-

'Of fucking course. Can you be more beautiful than you already are, you arsehole?' he said desperately.

Zayn laughed pushing him softly.

'Not my fault, mate. Should I be offended that you didn't know that already?' he mocked.

'What? What am I missing?' Harry pouted.

'Zayn's name literally translates to  _beauty_ and  _grace_.' he poked at Zayn's belly at every adjective that described him oh so perfectly.

'Well, we knew that, didn't we now? Am I not beautiful even without the name meaning?' Zayn said coyly.

'When I say you're practically embodied breath of an air nymph you get annoyed.' Louis said as a matter of factly, hopping off the chair, trying to find his silver pen in the pockets of his worn out olive jacket.

'I don't deserve the praise when there are so many lovely ducks out there waiting to be honored in the same way.' he said sarcastically.

'Still holding a grudge about that?' Louis asked amusedly, still picking through the kinck knacks of his endless pockets.

'My eyes do not resemble a wild duck's eyes, Louis!' 

Where was the damn thing?

'Did you see my silver pen?'

'Sure thing, I carry it around in my pocket all the time.' Zayn rolled his eyes.

'Don't be a dick.' Louis scowled. Where was  _his_ pen?

'I don't know, Lou. Here's a pen,' he said, tossing a pen that had his father's publishing company's logo on it,'we gotta run.' 

Zayn went around the stool and waved at him while going towards the exit.

'Tell the leprechaun we're at the pub tonight and that he's paying. And turn that bloody music off.'

'Bye.' he heard a deeper voice, Harry's, and forced himself to reply with a muffled 'Bye' from under the desk, still looking for the pen.

Where was his pen? Where was it?

It was there this morning, he was toying with the cap when he waited in the Starbucks line.

Where where where did he put it?

Oh god.

Did he lose it?

He might've dropped it?

Or at least dropped the cap... and the pen was worthless without the cap, what was the point of a pen with no cap? The aesthetics of a lovely silver pen was ruined and its function would be ruined too, it was a gel pen after all, it couldn't write if the cap wasn't protecting the ink from drying out.

How stupid could he be?

How could he leave the pen without the cap? How could he ruin a pen that could've written so many lines, so many words. How long was the line a pen could write? 2-3 km? He didn't write that much with his silver pen. He saved it, it was too pretty to be used all the time... That's just the way he is, saving something and then ruining it completely. He ruins everything. How many futures like the one of that pen has he influenced with his existence? How many has he ruined, lost or sucked the will to write long lines out off? 

_You're nothing but a pretty thing for showing off, boy._

_There's no worth in pretty things made of flesh. Flesh rots, and young becomes old. Life becomes death._

No one ever wanted to show him off. His father always kept him away from everyone who might hurt him, thinking of him as fragile, breakable, and that's why his father wasn't there anymore. He had to take care of Louis and couldn't take care of himself so they killed him they killed him they killed him.  _He killed him._

He killed his father with his weakness, it was as dangerous as pulling the trigger, sending the bullet through his heart. He killed his father with his pretty words and philosophical look at life. Life that becomes death. 

 _You're the only thing I live for, Louis._ he could hear his father's voice echoing and he had to cover his ears, he didn't want to hear that, nonono.

He lived for me, and I killed him because  _life becomes death._

I'm not life, I'm death.

Wherever I go I bring darkness I can't control.

My darkness shouldn't be other people's problem, it shouldn't burden them no no nonono

Kill the darkness before it kills someone, kill it, kill it, kill yourself.

_Don't talk, boy. Dark creatures stay silent, stay mysterious. Look, listen:_

 

_The woods are lovely,_

_dark and deep but_

_I've got promises to keep_

_and miles to go before I sleep_

 

_Isn't that a lovely thought, hm boy? Sleep? Forever?_

_Nonono_ his mind repeated as he tried to mute the voices, tried to gather himself up yet again.

_*_

Sleep seemed lovely. But staying awake seemed like a better option considering he was in the middle of a work day with a busy schedule, as busy as his schedule got.

He had plans with Niall, he had grocery shopping, he had daily visit to the park, George, a sixty year old who owned a coffee shop near by was surely expecting him. Or not. They didn't have a meeting pattern, George was more of an acquaintance, since Louis came by irregularly for the past few years, chatting with the man, reading to him, listening to his sorrowful stories about his wife who passed away, about his son with whom he doesn't speak anymore because the man thinks his father is to blame for his mother's death, and even if it pains George greatly, the fact that his wife would probably come back to life just to punch him hard enough in order for him to come back to his senses and then die again, he was too proud to seek out for his son. 

Louis tried to listen, actually listen to what people were telling him, and from a point of an objective individual who has nothing to do with their fate except willingly participating in giving an advice they were likely not going to listen, since, let's face it, no one actually asks for an advice to hear someone else's opinion and act upon it, unless the person they're asking is their mother.

Louis was far from a mother to anyone, he wasn't particularly familiar with the bond a child shared with their mother personally, but one learns a lot from mere observation. You can see that everyone needs an anchor, and that not everyone gets it. People find it in their parents because in a normal situation they're the ones who are with the child from the beginning and the ones the child relies upon the most.

He, just like many children, wasn't privileged enough to have a functional family, a stable ground to spread his unsteady roots on, so he could understand what was going on in George's son's head. 

Louis himself never blamed his father for his mother's death because, in his opinion, even though he wasn't a outstandingly clever individual he was bright enough to know that a person cannot make another get an incurable illness on purpose.

People don't appreciate the time they have together enough until they lose each other, he reckoned. But he couldn't blame them. No one really wants to think about the future and no one wants to miss the person they're fighting with, knowing they're right. That's what he was trying to prove to George and his son when they finally agreed to meet on Christmas Eve two years ago.

The man, Thomas, brought along his wife and five year old son who immediately went for the tree in the corner of George's bright shop and knocked it over. George tolerated it, he didn't want to look as if he was a pompous old man who hates his grandchildren for doing kid things, no sir. And Louis whispering in his ear, trying to stop George's OCD reaction to burst into a five year old's face might've helped as well.

Everything was good, they spoke too formally for a son and a father but that was to be expected. They were polite, respecting the Christmas spirit, George being a religious man probably thinking that if he made a scene on Jesus' birthday he would be struck by a lightning and banned from Heaven for centuries to come until he prayed and chanted until his tongue was swollen. 

Louis thought things went rather well for the two, he saw Thomas stopping by a few times, sometimes bringing his son, Tom, along with whom Louis played and tickled because the kid had big blue eyes and  _dimples,_ and honestly, who could resist dimples on a five year old? Not Louis, that's who.

Whenever Louis asked George how was Thomas he said his son was okay, his daughter in law was wonderful and the kid is chippery. 

And Louis believed him, even though he found the two far too often arguing over stupidest of reasons, it was a balance they could pull off, and George's reactions to his son's claims were too amusing for Louis to intervene. 

_'I swear to holy baby Jesus that if he's right I will grow a tree and once it's fully grown I will hang my neck from it!'_

Yes, George could get frustrated a it sometimes, and was sort of a control freak but that was part of his charm and Louis wouldn't want him change for anything.

He could bare a controlling man for whom he knew that deep down, was actually a good person.

A good person who got annoyed easily and wanted things to go his way every time, but good nevertheless. Louis appreciated all people and their personalities, without the persistent, annoyingly amusing ones, the world would be a rather dull place.

Not everyone can be bland as him, and he thanked the gods above for not filling the Earth with anyone alike _him_.  _That_ would be a catastrophe on a major level. Honestly, he pitied those who had to endure his presence, his pathetic attempts to justify his existence, so he tried to move out of the way knowing he was too much for anyone to bother with, even though he felt like he was so little, a tiny speck in a circling orbit of fullness and extravaganza he could never catch up with.

Paying tribute to the society in the only way he knew, describing it in all its glory, painting it in brightest of colours was his way of saying his thanks for everyone tolerating him and his filth. 

But sometimes he also pointed out the flaws he considered reflected him in the society as a big sculpture he has created, as if he was to blame for things other did. 

Sometimes he became frustrated with everything, with his thoughts he wanted to control desperately but couldn't because he was too weak, but then again thinking his thoughts were right, that he shouldn't blame himself all the time, that the world is a shitty place everyone should want to escape from, but then

there were so many happy, smiling faces around him and he wondered

how???

what is wrong with him?

Was it the bipolar disorder?

Chronic depression?

Was it a purely organic based infection?

Was he nothing more than a human form of a biological reaction that happened to blow inside his mind?

Were neurons and hormones that rebelled inside him to blame for his passive face, were they to blame for everything that has happened? For his mother dying, for people running away, for people treating him the way he knew he deserved but it hurt nevertheless? Or was he to blame for not being able to control something that must've happened inside every person's mind but others chose to either ignore it or deal with it better?

When two sides of his brain started to fight he simply sat and wrote, on paper or his skin. With ink, or in blood.

Both brought the same relief.

Words, just as thoughts, felt like an itch he needed to scratch, something he needed to set free. One part of him _had to_ be free. 

He didn't do it for himself, no.

He did it for others. He knew that if he didn't find a way to put an end to his instability, people around him would be affected and sometimes, besides writing ink and blood, watching people was one of the ways he found relief, and it would absolutely break him if he was disowned again, this time by the entire human race.

He wanted to belong, but every time he tried he felt like a deer caught in headlights. 

Only when he saw people who read his books he felt like he belonged. It was weird to see that his words could make others think, laugh or cry. 

Whenever he saw someone cry at the sad endings and beginnings in his books he felt like,  _Yeah, me too._

The thing with being mentally ill is that, nothing is wrong.

Everything is absolutely fine at that point of your life. Everything is normal, even better than it had been before.

And yet, 

there's a sinking feeling in your stomach, when your bones become too heavy to carry around, and it feels as if your brain is expanding inside your skull, trying to find its way out and you can't stop thinking about how wonderful it would be just to die.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Roberto Bolle is a real person, feel free to admire him on instagram @robertobolle.  
> 2.The texture of clouds has been explained, it's feels like fog when you touch it.  
> 3\. Harry just reminds me of an Erasmo on that picture, I have no idea why. Seems elvish or something.  
> 4\. Zayn honest to god reminds me of a maroon dahlia. I DON'T KNOW.!  
> Sorry.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm such an arsehole. I'm sorry.  
> This isn't going fast, aye? Most of you start reading this in hope of seeing some Larry action so this must be a huge disappointment to y'all... I'm not saying that there won't be loads of Larry action, it's just that it's taking me ages to get to the point.   
> Deep apologies for anything you might find dissatisfying.   
> Virtual kisses and hugs ((:

_Miles and miles on my own_   
_Walk with shame, I follow on_   
_A language to find hard to hear_   
_Not to understand, just disappear_

_London Grammar, Truth Is A Beautiful Thing_

 

_***_

Sitting in a pub with an Irishman is just as one would think of it to be. You're sitting next to them, trying your best not to faint while they're happily chatting with the waitress, sipping drink after drink as if it was nothing stronger than apple juice.

Not that Louis felt he was going to faint because he was drunk, since he wasn't.

Louis didn't drink.

Niall drank so that meant  _someone_ had to stay sober enough to shove him in the car and drive home unconscious, so the bastard could just get up in the morning and go for a jog, grabbing a double cheeseburger on his way as if he wasn't singing an ode to St. Patrick the previous night.

Louis felt dizzy and light headed because everything was overwhelming and he was sitting on the floor, pathetically trying to erase traces of tears that flooded his face thirty minutes prior to when his chippery friend came to ask him if they were going to celebrate (God knows what, but every day was special enough to drink in its glory according to Niall), as if he wasn't emotionally exhausted and fucking tired, but Niall didn't know that, Zayn wasn't allowed to know that and Louis had no other choice than to come along and pretend he wasn't bored and ready to collapse. Not to mention ready to punch everyone who approached their table. 

Even Zayn who came in after awhile, Louis honestly forgetting he was supposed to be there, forgetting he himself was there, wasn't spared from the silent attacks of Louis' violent mind.

'Horan, how much have you had to drink?' he spoke sternly.

'Not nearly enough.' the blonde replied cheerfully. 

He honest to god, has no worries on his mind, Louis thought.

What was going inside of that heavily armed ball of bold irishness, he could never begin to imagine.

Zayn just laughed and ordered himself a drink, a green fluid Louis forgot the name of but knew the taste was similar to things they rubbed prison cell floors with.

 

 _Everything on this world is rain and cold coffee and I feel overwhelmed._ he scribbled on the napkin and scratched his wrists absentmindedly. 

 

 _Feels like you're standing on_ _the edge_  
_Looking at the stars_  
_And wishing you were them_

Whishing nothing more than to burst into a million pieces and be carried along with the gas fumes that came from rows of cars in busy London traffic.

He was just as toxic as them.

'What's up with NIall?' Zayn asked, piercing a hole through Louis' self destructive thought bubble.

_Niall?_

Ah, the chippery lad who's whistling in his face.

'Why?' Louis wondered.

'He's... Weird?'

Louis looked at the man, tilting his head, trying to see anything that might be out of character.

'He's drinking and singing and laughing for no obvious reason. It's typical Niall behaviour?'

Zayn laughed. 

'Yeah, but he seems off. Laughing too much, drinking too little. Honestly, I think he's not even drunk?'

Now that's worrying.

'Since you're probably going to disappear in a matter of minutes in order to meet grotty posh people in a grotty posh club, I'll be left to take him home, and taking a slightly less drunk Niall home is not something I'm going to frown upon, thanks.'

Zayn smirked, typing on his phone, proving Louis he was right.

'You're such a good friend.'

'Yeah, sure.' Louis frowned. 

He knew Zayn was joking, but that didn't mean he didn't feel like shit, knowing he was the exact opposite. 

Why are people around him?

Why isn't everyone running away at the sight of his pathetic, ugly face?

Why do people stick around?

_They don't._

And that was true. People don't stick around, but it's not like he could blame them. He would like nothing more than to escape from himself. Whenever someone comes along, Louis prepares himself for their departure that's surely about to come. He was always a phase in everybody's lives. When people are experimenting with a certain group or personalities, trying to figure out what kind of a person they want to spend time with, what kind of characters suit them most, Louis found himself most often than not looking at their back as they went forward, searching for someone else, something more, something he couldn't give, relieved they stumbled upon him to see what kind of repellent apes they should look out for. 

Well, at least he served as a bad example, so in a way, he was useful to the society. 

'So, I gotta run.' Zayn said, putting his phone away.

'You'll be alright on your own?'

He wanted to say something like  _aren't we all left on our own since the day we're born_ but didn't have the energy.

'Yeah.' Louis smiled. 'Niall's going to be with me.'

'How comforting.' Zayn said sarcastically. 

'I could bring you along, you know.' he smirked.

'Where?' Louis frowned.

'To a grotty posh club.' 

'I'd rather pour boiling water on my eyes, thanks.' Louis deadpanned. 

'Don't pretend they didn't use to be your crowd.' Zayn mocked.

'Not by my choice.' Louis said darkly.

Zayn's face softened as he put his arm around Louis' shoulders and squeezed lightly.

'I know, I was joking. Just didn't want you to be alone, and...' he stopped for a second and smirked knowingly, 'someone asked about you.'

Louis froze in place, millions of thoughts going through his head.

_Who?_

_Why?_

_No. No, God, please no, not again._

Zayn must've felt his discomfort since he looked at him worriedly, moving away slightly.

'Harry?'

'Who?' Louis winced.

'The guy from this morning I brought to the store? Not Zayn?'

Louis laughed nervously, visibly relieved.

_Of course, don't be stupid._

'The one with the voice and the hair?'

'Honestly, Lou, how many Harry Styles's do you meet in one day?!' Zayn rolled his eyes.

'I just met one this morning?' 

Zayn stared at him blankly.

'Not even going to... I'm gonna go, okay? Okay. See you.'

He left Louis looking after him, wondering if all the drama is worth beating his head over until deciding that, no, a better decision is to take Niall home even though it wasn't even midnight, but he doubted he would last much longer and if both of them fainted he was sure Zayn wouldn't pick up his phone to come and get them.

Niall was quite compliant, and their short drive home was silent, which when Louis thought about it, was quite disturbing.

'Niall love, are you alright?' he asked carefully unlocking the door to his apartment, thinking it would be better for them to spend the night in company.

Since Niall seemed to be worried about something.

This was only for Niall's sake. Louis was trying to be a good fellow human, honestly.

Niall smiled his lazy drunk smile, walking towards the sofa, not fooling Louis for a second.

Zayn might've noticed that Niall's off tonight first, but Louis spent 13 hours a day with the man, he knew all his defense mechanisms and tricks his body played when he was lying or, like now, preparing his tipsy mind for a big, fat lie.

'm fine, Tommo.'

Louis crossed his arms, mother style, trying to look intimidating. 

He reckoned it looked more like a worried puppy style, but still...

'Really?'

Niall bit his lip and sighed tiredly.

'No.'

Louis approached, sitting on the edge, allowing his friend to put his legs on his lap, patting him absentmindedly.

'Dad called.'

Ah.

'What'd he want?' 

'The usual. Dumping the shit no one has the nerves to hear on me.'

Louis waited, knowing there was more to it.

'It's just... I can't do it anymore, Lou.' Niall sighed sadly and Louis could hear his heart breaking just a little.

'Every damn time he has a fight with Greg he comes to me, every time he has a fight with mum he comes to me, every time he needs money he comes to me, every time he does something he reckons the world should know about and respect him for, he comes to me. He was honest to god angry at me for not visiting him in two months. He feels abandoned by his ungrateful children. Note the  _children._ He probably talked to Greg first and when Greg wouldn't take his shit anymore he had to yell at someone.'

Niall was lying on his back, staring at the ceiling blankly and Louis felt desperate. 

Niall Horan's eyes ought to be filled with joy and everything gold, bland tastes and dark moods weren't something the gods planned for him, no.

'I did everything I could.' he said helplessly.

'I quit my music career to respect my grandad's wishes and keep the damn store going just because his son was stupid enough to lose his trust. _Family tradition, do it for the family_. What has the family done for me? What kind of a 23 year old owns a bookstore and drinks his arse off every night to forget the fact that he's stupid enough to cry over financial stability that doesn't include his dreams of becoming... something. I.. I can't go on like this, Lou. I can't be a father to my father, I can't pay his bills, I refuse to.

He's not a fucking tribe leader, he did absolutely nothing for us, _for me_ that would make me respect him. In fact, he did the opposite. I don't blame mum for running away, I would too if someone gave me a choice.'

Niall rubbed a hand over his face in frustration.

'I always stayed quiet when he got angry, even when I was a kid, I kept quiet, knowing it was his way of blowing off the steam, that it'll pass. I thought it was fucking normal for him to lose his temper to the point where he threw plates over the kitchen since we didn't have a punching bag, you know?' he laughed humorlessly.

'I don't even know how he managed to earn the reputation of a stern man. What drove my mother to marry him in the first place? S'posse she was pregnant with Greg and was afraid to raise him alone...' he mused.

'But when she saw what kind of an ogre she married, why didn't she go away, why did she have me? It would've been so much better if she refused to give birth to me and did something with her life before it was too late... It was a mistake, I was a mistake, I shouldn't have happened, for fuck's sake...'

And that was it. 

'Niall. No! I will have none of that!'

He grabbed Niall's hands and pulled him in a sitting position so he could look him in the eye.

Niall's confused, tired face almost brought tears to Louis' eyes. 

'Love, you're one of the most important people in my life, and if I had any saying in it, I would share you with the whole world just so they could all see that there's a blessing called Niall Horan roaming the dusty streets of London. Your mother would never regret having you and never will, she loves you, just like every damn person that meets you. I feel sorry for you for not being able to have the pleasure of knowing yourself the way others do.' he spoke sternly.

'You repaint the sky with your smile and your jokes travel all the way up to the stars, and they laugh so hard they fall to Earth and that's why meteors crash. Because of you.

Patient, snow soul of yours.' Louis added softly.

'You don't have to feel guilty for wanting more, for wanting to live and be without the shadow of responsibility breathing down your neck. 

It's not your life, a life they made but didn't nourish properly. 

If you bow down to your father every time he feels like he needs an ego boost, he'll think that's how everyone should treat him, as if he was privileged. And he's not. He's just a tiny speck in a circling orbit.'

Louis huffed out a breath.

'Not to insult your father but he's been acting like a proper dick. You don't owe him anything. You've sacrificed your dreams in order to lift some weight of your brother's shoulders who couldn't care less about your father, who did something you should've done as well, follow your dreams. 

This is a free society dammit and you shouldn't feel trapped. The world is big enough for you to find your place in it and you know you will, there's a special spot for you on the Walk of Fame and you're going to fucking claim it, alright?' Louis almost yelled, but it was more of a frustrated whisper, really.

Niall bowed his head down and sighed.

'I don't know, Lou, I'm just so tired.' he said, resting his head on Louis' lap and closing his eyes.

 

Niall might've chosen not to think about their conversation in the morning, the only thing that made Louis sure he wasn't actually completely wasted during it and that his senses haven't failed him was the tight hug and a silent  _thank you_ whispered in his ear just before he left, but Louis sure as hell will never forget it or stop thinking about the fact that he's been blind enough not to see the weight that's been crushing his friend's spirits. 

If there's anything he could do to make the sun reflect the light in his favourite leprechaun's eyes, he will. 

And he knew he could.

And he knew he will.

So he did.

***

There were so many things Louis hated about his life but he knew there was no point in complaining or openly stating his thoughts since no one cared, really.

He remembers listening to his friend's new album, besides being extremly honored to be one of the first people who listened to it, he felt overwhelmed by its sincerity and the beauty of the man's voice. He felt honored to be called his friend, as a matter of fact.

He couldn't shake the feeling of being an ungrateful bastard who didn't deserve to be surrounded by beautiful people, people who brought change to the world and made a difference in everyone's lives. Maybe it was a bit cruel of him, that was just one of the things to add on the list that'll earn him a VIP pass in Satan's inner circle, but he couldn't help but "sort" people into categories based on what kind of beauty they carried, what kind of energy they radiated.

Of course, it wasn't his place to analyze people and look into their souls, since he was a demon reincarnation himself (yes, he was _that_ dramatic), and humans were heavenly creatures, but like every weak man he sought relief in anything he could. That didn't mean he didn't punish himself later for being a weak, nasty creature, himself.

But even Hell's cruelest feasted on the fruit of human perfectly shaped imperfection before descending.

Upon seeing Ed for the first time, or technically speaking,  _hearing,_ since the man was standing in front of the bookstore, playing the guitar and singing while Louis was dumbly staring in front of himself, not even  _thinking_ about anything, just feeling numbly empty, it felt as if his senses were overflown with the liquid bronze that is Ed Sheeran's voice.

His voice felt like a remedy, echoing through the cracks in his mind, gently filling the space with the serene sounds that felt like angel whispers.

And Louis was partly human, after all and couldn't fight the urge to go out and listen to him more intently, he wanted to feel closer to the warmth that radiatied through the glass of the store's window. 

And that's how he has earned to sit in a coffee shop with Ed Sheeran five years later, listening to his new album, fighting the urge to cry.

He had to stop in the middle because 

 _My dad was wrong_  
_'Cause I'm not like my mum_  
_'Cause she'd just smile and I'm complaining in a song_  
_But it helps_

hit too close to home and it's not like Ed wasn't sitting there looking at him expectedly, a weird look in his eyes, as if he sought  _approval._ From  _Louis._

Yeah, right.

'Just... I hope people all around the world put their phones on silent for a second and just listen to the sound of their hearts thumping at the excitment from listening this.' he said breathlessly.

'That means you like it?' Ed beamed.

'When have I not liked anything you've created, Edward?' he asked sternly.

'Yeah, but... those were my humble beginings, I'd like to think that I've improved since then?' Ed scratched his head.

'There is nothing humble about you, Edward. You've always been great, just polished your talent and adjusted it, shaped  the way you felt like in that period of life I guess...'

 'You sound like my gran.' Ed huffed and took a sip of his coffe, leaning in, looking Louis in the eye with an intention that made him uneasy.

One of the things he both hated and loved about Ed is the fact that when with him, a person felt like all his attention is on them, it felt like he didn't want to miss twitch of an eye or an unintentional quirk of one's lip. It was wonderful, when he observed other people like that, and Louis knew he did that too but when he was the one in the center of attention... not so wonderful.

_How hypocritical, Louis, bravo._

'Well... thanks. I know you prefer old time, vintage stuff, so I brought you a vinyl to add to Niall's collection.'  Ed pulled it from his bag and layed on the table.

'How artistic cover, my, my.' Louis mocked.

'Thanks, drew it myself.' Ed said proudly.

Louis couldn't help but smile fondly, Ed reminded him of Niall  _so much._

Niall.

'Hey... Mate... I...' Louis started, shifting uncomfortably, 'I was thinking... of asking you something?'

'Please do.' Ed sounded amused by his discomfort and Louis wanted to punch him.

It would be a tough poke, really. Not enough to bruise. Just hurt a little.

'Well... About Niall...' he didn't know how to start, what to say. For someone who lived of words he felt not up to the task, but then again, it was about Niall and this was Ed, and he was Louis so it didn't really take him long to wrap his thoughts in an approriate form.

'You know he's got a YouTube channel, right?'

'No, I didn't know that.' Ed said thoughtfully.

'Well. He has a YouTube channel.' Louis started impatiently.

'And... He's pretty active on it, posts regularly and all... And... he's never really said anything, I think he does it just for fun and I've always treated it like a hobby, which is nice, since he's real talented but you know my "career" started because I was lucky enough to have Zayn there to notice that my talent sort of pays off, and now I realize that I have to be Niall's Zayn. Or. You. You have to be his Zayn. If you do agree to be his Zayn I guess it's going to be much more easier than he had it with me since Niall is.. Niall and he's in his element, really, I think he likes singing more than playing golf and that's saying something. And he's also sociable and extrovert and handsome and Irish and... people like that, right?'

Ed watched him amusedly, Louis was 90% sure he was still listening to him because he was a devil in human form who liked to watch misery and embarassment and Louis was all that and more. Sometimes he felt like a memory foam mattress comercial, 

_but wait! That's not all there is to this special offer! If you call right now you're getting anxiety attacks, annoying theories AND depressing metaphors on  top of this stuttering mess! That's right ladies and gentlemen! Get ready to open a deep hidden wish for drowning yourself in boredom caused by a tiny man who's carrying an imense amount of baggage along with pointless tears that might burst in the middle of a crowded theatre during a romantic comedy or a tragic historical fantasy! And all that for only £99.99!_

 'Yes, Louis, it doesn't even matter if he's a good singer, only thing that matters is that he's Irish.'

'Don't pretend like your elvish blood isn't magical. I highly doubt that you didn't do some chanting and sacrifise to your Celtic ancestors before going on the streets, busker from a fucking fairytale.'

'Yes. That is exactly what I did. Lucky Niall won't have to kill anyone to uplift his chances for a successful career.'

'Anyone? Did you kill a human, Edward, is that what you're trying to tell me?'

'I'm trying to tell you I'm going to help him, you idiot, even though you haven't gotten to the point, as per usual, you got lost in the woods of my Celtic ancestory and human sacrifise - which I did  _not_ perform - instead of just asking _Ed, would you be a good lad and help out my mate Niall achieve his childhood dream and help me get rid of this guilt that's been building up in me for which I'm probably not to blame but hey, I'm kind of an egocentric arse who thinks things happen as a result of my actions, did you know I started the World War II?'_  

And Louis  _really_ didn't know if he should be angry at him for raising his voice an octave higher to theatrically present the last sentance in order to mimic Louis' voice, or start crying, beacuse, he really doesn't deserve this beautiful, humble man in front of him.

He ended up thanking him a million times and throwing a straw at him, just to keep the balance.

 

When you ask a famous friend about helping to change other friend's entire life, you might first want to inform the one about whom you were talking about with a world wide famous pop star. 

That is something Louis realized as he sat yet again in Niall's store, shaking, waiting for his friend to come from practice, trying to remember that Niall wasn't a violent person and Ed would understand if he showed up tomorrow and said  _the thing with Niall is canceled, he decided to channel his Irishness into another good cause, he's becoming a druid_ or something alike, but still... 

_What the actual fuck, you idiot!_

He was snapping the rubber band on his right wrist vigorously, remembering how much he resented William for being a nosy prick, trying to take Louis' life in his hands as if Louis wasn't capable enough to do so himself (which he kind of wasn't but he sure as hell wouldn't admit that to anyone, let alone a overprotective, know it all big brother that's been changing his nappies and well was acquinted with his crumbling strenght of spirit) and realized he did the same.

_Stupid!_

_Nosy!_

_Stupid!_

_That's the last thing he needed now, after all the drama with his father, and Greg not being around. Starting it out on the musical scene where there'll be millions of eyes pointed at him, millions of mouths to talk shit about him even though they don't know the first thing that came to his personality, but that wouldn't matter because that was business, he's going to become just business for someone, for an assistant, for a manager, for a pap, for another artist that'll collaborate with him, for someone who's going to say they went out clubbing, snogging and get new followers on social network._

_The people surrounding him will be there when he gets famous, which he will, Louis had no doubt of that because aside from the world being selfish for trying to take a bite of everyone's big famous glittery rainbow cake, there'll be people who are going to listen to him, his voice, his lyrics, his emotions, him. Niall might like that. That's what he likes the most about it but he doesn't know, he doesn't know...._

_It's going to be hell, maybe he'll decide it's not worth it, maybe he'll return to his YouTube channel and dank pub gigs, a crowd he's familiar with, not the people who're going to dissect every part of his life, put his actions under the light of a thousand reflectors and magnifying glasses, everyone's going to turn into a fucking Sherlock Holmes trying to define his every stutter and vowel, people will judge for whatever reason they find appropriate in that moment, they'll want him to be perfect because, he's going to be a role model for some people and it's not appropriate for him to make mistakes, he's there to provide comfort for others, he's there for others to see, hear, touch... Dark alleys will never be safe for him again, there'll be people who will come up to him, touch him without asking, scream and laugh at him, and he won't be able to spend time doing things he did before as much and he will maybe even have to break contact with people he used to hang out and he won't be able to breathe for too long without someone saying he took a too deep breath so that must mean something, he must be tired, he must be clubbing, the fame must've gotten into his head, he's using, problems in paradise, stop doing this, do that, kick, shove, like this not like that, until he shows fear, tears, blood..._

_Fucking hell, Tomlinson._

_I will not project, I will not project, I will not pro-_

Snap. Snap. Snap. 

_Breathe. Calm down._

Snap. Snap. Snap.

'Hey Tommo!' a loud, positively exhausted voice came from the front of the store and Louis whimpered while snapping for the last time before standing up and going to greet the cheerful sweaty mess.

_Calm the fuck down._

_Breathe._

_Fucking breathe._

'Heeey!' he greeted lamely.

Niall trew his hand around Louis' shoulders and Louis tried not to shrink under his touch, tried to act as if the touch didn't feel like a burning iron chain casually thrown at him.

_It's Niall._

'Dude, the practice was exhausting! They brought kids from some baptist church club, you should've seen those lil' fuckers and priests kicking the ball round, like they were powered with holy spirit energy by Jesus himself.' he chuckled.

'Things been calm this morning?' he looked around the almost empty store. 

'Yeah..  Mostly... It is 10 in the morning.'

He shifted uncomfortably, trying to find a way to start, to prepare himself for a  _you should've told me first mate_ or a strong punch in the jaw Niall's been known for when drunk.

Snap. Snap. Snap.

He's been staring at the floor for a few seconds before deciding,  _fuck it I deserve whatever he throws at me,_ and opened his mouth ready to puke an avalanche of umm's sorry's and errr's.

'So, Ed called me this morning.' Niall said, cutting Louis off.

Louis didn't know what kind of face he pulled that made Niall burst laughing but he supposed it triggered the same instincts as when someone falls flat on their face and makes others laugh which he never understood but also never judged since others weren't able to control themselves whenever someone falls, farts or trips and he didn't find it amusing at all. 

_Don't be a pretentious, judging prick, you arsehole._

'You just should've told him there's a thing called  _time zones_ and they're broken in Japan, where he's touring. And I'm, you know. Not.'

Making a  _huh? face_ was never easier for Louis than in that moment. 

'He's touring? It's like... afternoon there when it's morning here, and he... called me... in three in the morning to tell me I'm an Irish prodigy destined to become a superstar that's going to bring back the Celtic tunes, and he talked about sacrifise and I was honest to God ready to hang up, call pastor Roger or the fucking Pope to exorcise him or something but there was noise behind and someone took the phone and said he's drunk as fuck, that he's going to call me later. Went back to sleep to be honest hoped it was a dream and that I get to kill him when he shows his face around again.

Turns out he was drunk, quoting, whoever says Japanese people can't hold down a drink hasn't drank with 10 of them and should be drowned in sake, but was serious bout me becoming a superstar?'

He raised a questioning eyebrow at Louis before continuning,

'I was briefed by him, contacted a lady assistant named Sarah right after, through fucking email?? Apparently found it on my channel. And I'm supposed to thank you for all that?'

 Was that supposed to be Niall's intimidating  _whom am I supposed to thank for this so I can beat the shit out of the motherfucker?_

Well...Pain was never a stranger to him...

'Well... I might've mentioned something to Ed. About you... Singing and... your channel. Now when I think about it.... I shoul've thought it through. I should've asked you. I probably should've kept my mouth shut.' Louis stopped for a second, biting his lip.

'Fuck, Niall, I really didn't think about it, we were talking and he said he knows you're a good guy and I was thinking about all the shit that's happened and remembered how he started his career and I saw loads of similarities and it just...' he pulled a hand through his hair in frustration, unable to find the words that'll explain why he gave himself the right to invade Niall's privacy, let people contact him and waste his precious time, think he has the right to face him after all that, trying to explain himself. Now he would've prefered much more to be punched just to get this over with because his heart was beating so fast as if it was running on a treadmill, an action Louis has swore never to undertake so he took this feeling as an act of rebellion by his own systems that've been threatening to shut down since early teens when he was pushed into the world of constant anxiety and problematic social interactions.

'I don't know! I'm sorry, you don't have to do anything, I'll tell Ed not to bother you and it-' 

He was rambling, he knew it, but he put all his hopes into Niall's ability to discern the actual words inbetween all the huffs and puffs and foot tapping.

'Mate!' Niall laughed, putting, what he assumed would be, a reassuring arm on Louis'.

'Are you crazy?'

_Yes._

'Are you seriously worried that I'd be angry for you mentioning my name in front of a billionare artist, opening a gate for new oportunities or, if we're going to be super optimistic, a better life?'

Louis looked at him nervously, unsure, on edge, Niall's hand offering little comfort.

'C'mon! It's my childhood dream! Mate, you just won the best friend award for the entire century, do you realize that?'

 _So, he won't hit me._ was the only thought that went through Louis' mind before offering a tiny smile, telling Niall he doesn't know what's he talking about, allowing to be lead upstairs by the explosion of unruly locks and giggles that claimed if he doesn't wash off the smell of 'that pastor that's been eyeing and bumping into me suspiciously too often' he might jacking off on pope Francis tonight.

Louis shook his head with laughter at Niall's out of tune singing coming from the bathroom of his cozy, vintage looking appartment, as he sat by the work table thinking how lucky he is, how fate, God, karma, guardian angel or whatever, always find their way of setting things straight (no pun intended) because he messed up and  _Niall didn't hit him._

 

_I counted four stars_

_I meddled with forces beyond my comprehension_

_I asked for a favor_

_Knowing I haven't done my sacrifise to deserve a gift f_ _rom up above_

_So now, I'm sitting on a tiny sand dot_

_Not believing my luck, not jumping on the ship_

_that lead to the reality shore_

_Because I want to swim in my dreams,_

_and feel the seaweed grab my leg,_

_drag me to the bottom,_

_because some birds are meant to be caged_

_and I can't swim and won't frown_

_I will smile as I drown._


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In constant need of approval I beg you to do something with the kudos button and comments section.  
> Err... Should I say that I'm kinda swirling through this, adding bits of my stuff and song lyrics and poem snippets I found online?  
> And. It's moving rather slowly, isn't it? Sorry about that.  
> Thanks for the click! <3

_But tell me if I run away_  
_How long will I bleed?_

_Matt Maeson, Grave Digger_

 

Things happen too quickly, too easily for a complicated man to understand. So the man doesn’t try to understand and deal with things he cannot understand, he avoids them.

In the months that came, Louis fancied himself busy with things he hated doing, but found them to be useful means of distraction. Niall was too busy with all the business with Ed, too chippery for Louis to stand him more than a few minutes since he managed to jump around Louis and express gratitude with too much physical contact for his liking and since Louis was also opposed to constant gratitude in forms of Irish fluffiness, he found it rather nice to be useful _and_ avoid warm glances and firm hugs from the Irish lad.

Ed was much more considerate, patting him on the back and mentioning briefly how great it was to work with Niall, how great of a songwriter he was, how his musical balance is just something people are born with, everything Louis already knew, being around Niall long enough to know the power of his abilities he never doubted in.

Niall was destined to succeed, by the power of his talent that ought to be noticed randomly or slightly pushed, shoved, down the busy streets of the industry Niall quite fitted in, and Louis despised.

To each their own. Louis isn’t the one to judge other people’s comfort zones, since he had none.

He knew that there was no place on this planet where he could be at ease, without fearing of exposing himself, without the fear of being judged, stared at, hunted down. So, he did what every self destructive mind tends to do. He pushed himself out of his comfort zone, but with his preservation instincts still present, managing to do it all behind the veil, unexposed.

Being friends with Zayn it wasn’t much of a choice really. There was no way you could be around Zayn Malik and not pick up on his “enterprising” abilities. Zayn did it rather majestically. He did everything outstandingly and Louis was amazed by the blessing of his cosmic presence.

While Zayn understood Louis much more than others did, and managed the role of a protective older brother in William’s absence, he still wasn’t the one who knew everything, and that was alright. Louis never wanted to put all his secrets in one glass jar that easily spills and brakes, being pushed around with other jars on a over occupied shelf that was Zayn Malik’s life. Business and posh society was everything Zayn was while preserving the veil of mystery around himself. For other people at least because for Louis Zayn was not mysterious at all. He carried his heart up his sleeve, and since Louis always liked to look up to him, that was a trait he avoided.

_No one is useless, they at least can set a bad example for others._

That was a line from a book Louis helped write, with his psychiatrist friend, Owen. And now, sitting in the front row in a hall too wide and too white to be anything but intimidating and distant, typical for every scientific research and doctoral work promotions, he wondered where did all these people with posh accents and shelves full of books on dull topics with words that made one’s mind spin in confusion and uselessness, lose their sense of aesthetics and everything that’s pretty.

Listening to Owen explaining seriously everything _Louis_ wrote, and seeing all the serious faces nodding in approval made him want to vomit at the hypocrisy.

No one here is exceptionally smart, outstandingly clever and intelligent. Not even him. They were blessed with traits such as persistence and egoism that made them want to climb the top of an entirely different industry Niall wanted to be a part of.

They considered themselves above everything trivial others enjoyed, and masked their inability to feel the things other people felt by dissecting their behavioural patterns, just what Louis did.

And even after Owen thanked everyone who contributed in making of his book that he hoped widened our knowledge on the topic, after the soft applause and murmurs of others who exited the hall, discussing everything they heard, probably saying they could add so much more to it, and Owen’s cold handshake, Louis still felt incredibly stupid and incredibly empty.

He could feel the weight of all the useless college degrees and recognitions weighing him down like an anchor.

He needed to breathe, he needed to be surrounded with people who didn’t carry a stick up their arse, he needed _freedom._ He once swore never to be around people who will make him feel the way _they_ did. Now when he looks at his life, it isn’t much different.

You couldn’t say he hasn’t changed the scenery, because he did. He visited art galleries, hung out with hippie artists, wrote books about freedom and children and music and nature and everything pretty money could buy. But he also went to posh gatherings and knew their etiquette and hated himself for complying and behaving all proper and receiving approval from people on whose graves he would spit and dance on. People who made this world wrong just because they want to feel important. People Louis despised.

 

_I had a dream last night. I was lying in the North Sea. My body was a rock. I was an island. All the shrimps, like little devils, with little bows and arrows were surrounding me, firing into my flesh._

_It wasn’t just a dream._

_It was a vision of my reality._

 

It was something he loved doing - creating art some might find unfitting, or even miserable. But, miserable people created art and those without art were bound to be miserable. Lucky for Louis he was miserable.

 

But he distracted himself with side jobs, writing columns on music, art or anything else his friend’s magazine lacked staff for in that moment. He loved helping Zayn with finding fitting new writers, he loved going to open mic nights, looking for a new Ed or Niall, sometimes just sitting there alone and miserable, enjoying suffering like a bottle of fine wine, refusing to share with anyone. His misery was his and his alone.

 

As his portal into the mortal world and connection to conveniently avoided human interaction lit up and Zayn’s name flashed on the screen he gave it a few seconds before deciding to answer.

 

“Hmm?”

 

“Hey, Lou.?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Where are you?”

“Home?” Louis put him on speaker, shifting on the floor, scribbling nursery rhymes on the back of his beat up journal, not even trying to sound interested.

 

“Great. You finished Matt’s draft?”

 

Beethoven. Oven. Burnt finger.

 

Death. Grave.  Digging.

 

Matt.

 

Draft.

 

“Mhmm..”

 

“Oh, thank God. Cool. Could you… Can I come pick it up?”

 

Pick up. Pickup. Line. Track. Draft. Zayn.

 

Gah.

 

“Yep.”

 

“Kay, I’ll ring myself up. Be there in a few.”

 

“Kay. Love you.”

 

“You too.”

 

The line went dead and Louis hissed as he felt the smoke burn his eyes.

There were at least twenty cigarettes in his ashtray but he didn’t feel like emptying it. His clothes absorbed the smoke and he found comfort in the slight tingle on his tongue, eyes.

Zayn sounded like he was in a hurry so he must already be on his way so Louis got up, stepping over the papers on the floor, jumping over the cushions that fell off his sand coloured sofa, towards the shelf where he put the draft he finished last night. This morning.

He picked it up and put it on the coffee table, taking a sip of the coffee that’s been standing there since the birth of Christ, not minding it being cold.

 

He liked cold coffee and sunflowers.

 

Without bothering to tune down the music that’s probably going to earn him another set of complaints from his neighbours he lowered down in his shame cocoon and lit another cigarette.

 

_I stand at the top of a tree,_

 

_Wanting to see the world from_

_A perspective of a creature who’s free;_

 

_But time is ruthless, and so is my will to be,_

_Stand,_

_Or breathe,_

 

_Walk among people,_

_When the streetlights are the only ones noticing me;_

 

_I look at the clouds and call out a plea,_

 

_Apocalypse, please,_

_I’m counting to three._

 

So pathetic, yes.

So Louis.

 

“Hello love.”

 

“You smell like pine.” Louis said without looking up, feeling Zayn’s lips in his hair.

 

“You like it?” Zayn sat on the floor beside him, examining the papers Louis left on the table.

 

Louis hummed in approval. Zayn always smelled differently.

 

“And vanilla? Why is there vanilla?” Louis tilted his head questionably at Zayn when - well.

 

“Hello.”

 

“Hello.” answered another voice Louis hadn’t noticed earlier. Vanilla scented voice.

 

“Oh, I brought Harry with me. You don’t mind?” Zayn asked, nose too close to the paper.

 

He really needs to get glasses Louis mused.

 

“No, I don’t mind.” Louis smiled at Harry who stood above them, eyes scanning the room comically. Louis couldn’t blame him, it was probably a mess. But he was used to it. He rather liked it. Zayn didn’t mind. Niall never complained since he was the one who made most of it when he was around. And.. no one really ever visited so Louis didn’t feel the need to tidy it up.

 

“Want to sit down?”

 

Harry looked around, trying to figure out where to before lowering himself next to Louis on the floor.

 

Suddenly feeling very Sheldon Cooperish he felt the urge to offer an appropriate beverage to his guests.

 

“You lads want something to drink? Tea? Coffee? Hydrogen cyanide?”

 

That startled a surprised laugh from Harry and a scoff from Zayn as he put out the cigarette and stood up to fix himself another cup of coffee.

He was feeling like coffee today.

“Don’t want.” Zayn grumbled.

“Tea for me?” Harry voiced uncertainly.

“Which kind?” Louis asked from over the stove, open view from kitchen allowing him to see the whole flat and the odd combination of Zayn and Harry’s limbs covered in fashionable fabric sprawled on the floor.

“Umm.. Whichever?”

That narrows it down.

Louis grabbed the first fruity tea box he could reach from the top of the shelf before his toes started aching. Damn his height and Niall’s poor sense of humour that made him put his stash to the least reachable place. Niall said it was for his own good since the last time he visited, _and stayed for three weeks_ , Louis’ been drinking at least six cups a day, leaving Niall in fear of suffering a heart attack.

 

_It’s tea, not heroin, for fuck’s sake._

 

_Your habits are addictive._

 

Louis could’ve climb the counter and reach them, or fetch a chair, but really didn’t feel like it. Especially when Zayn was looking at him, smirking from over the room.

 

He could hear Zayn saying something but the music was still on and he couldn’t make out the words so he grabbed the mugs and went to tune it down.

 

“You were saying?” he lowered the mugs on the table, smiling at Harry’s _thank you_ as he blowed on the tea from his pink Frida Kahlo mug.

 

“You talked to Roy?”

 

“Nope, why?”

 

“He said all these songs were going to make him throw himself off a cliff. You and Matt are quite a pair when it comes to writing this shit so he leaves it to you two to name the album?”

 

Louis took a yellow pillow and put it on his lap, resting the mug of the same shade on it, picking up his phone.

 

“I actually talked to Matt about it? I sent him some of the lyrics and he added some lines and sent me a snippet. I reckon he was in the shower when he filmed it but you’ll posh up the technicalities in the studio.”

 

Scrolling through the endless list of emojis and memes Matt and him have been exchanging he clicked on the audio tune and threw the phone at Zayn, turning towards his journal and sipping coffee as Matt’s melancholic voice flew through smoke and dust in the air.

 

_Colors blend_

_They're all black and white_

_Goddamn me, I can not bend_

_I'm all shriveled inside_

 

There was a loud crack and a curse coming from the phone as Matt, undoubtedly, tripped.

 

 _“Fuck. Sorry bout that.”_ Shuffle. Shuffle.

 

He was probably half naked and sweaty at that moment and that thought didn’t make Louis uncomfortable at all. Just endeared.

 

_“I thought bout adding this too since you sent it last night -”_

 

Shuffle. Click. Cough.

 

_I'll be tryna suckle all the liquid out the dirt_

_Tryna catch a curve, digging my own grave_

_Ooh mama_

 

It was desperation and tears in sound. Louis shivered.

 

Zayn returned the phone and whistled.

 

“Well.. We might put this out as a teaser. Has charm.”

 

“Yeah, sure.” Louis chuckled.

 

“We agreed on _Who Killed Matt Maeson._ ”

“Lovely.” Zayn deadpanned.

 

“Well, you did ask him to name it. I can’t tell him he can’t name his own album. Besides, it’s not that bad.”

 

“No, the lyrics are good and all… I’ll have to talk to Roy about it, but I think he’ll agree with me.”

 

Louis hummed, drawing skulls with flowers, leaving ink stains on the paper.

 

“Thanks a lot babe.” Zayn said softly, reaching over to the remote, turning on the tv Louis wasn’t aware was still working.

 

“Wait, you wrote that?”

 

Louis looked at Harry’s curious expression, admiring the way his eyes shone in awe. Or something. The lightning in this place was weird.

 

“Yes.” Louis smiled.

 

Louis smiled a whole lot lately.

 

“And this..?” he pointed at the mess of papers around them

 

“Yours as well?”

 

“No, I keep a knowledgeable goblin during the full moon, he likes to scribble his lonely thoughts every now and then. Says he’s going to publish a book called Desperation From The Elvish Side. Leaves a mess every time, though. Not that I mind, I think he couldn’t continue with his writing if I moved anything from the place he left it in.”

 

Dimples. A row of unfairly even teeth.

 

_There was a smile that reminded me of cotton candy. It left my brain rotting in sweet despair._

 

“Do you think he’d mind if I took a peak? Promise I’ll put everything where I found it so he could gather his thoughts when he comes back.”

 

Dimples.

 

“Sure.”

 

The light couldn’t have cracked through the window with such force in September, making Harry’s eyes shine like two suns. Not possible, this is gloomy England. Yet…

He didn’t look at Harry with the corner of his eye while talking to Zayn about Matt’s album and Zayn’s sister’s upcoming exhibition, no sir.

 

He didn’t cling to his journal like a naked child, fearing of exposing himself.

 

He didn’t become self conscious about everything he left on the floor.

 

He didn’t laugh at the irony of his soul being spilled on the floor without him caring to pick it up.

 

He didn’t shiver at Harry’s meaningful glances and careful eyes flying over the lines, absorbing the words with softness no human of his size should possess.

 

He didn’t feel bad when Zayn suddenly got up and said he had to go, dragging Harry along.

 

He didn’t shiver at a handshake and… Dimples.

 

_I was born with glass bones and paper skin. Every morning I break my legs and every afternoon I break my arms. At night I lie awake in agony until my heart attacks put me to sleep at the memory of a star I could never reach. At the memory of a dark barrier I cannot breach, and a smile that wasn’t meant for my eyes to see._

 

So pathetic.

 

So Louis.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out Matt Maeson, his songs are killing me.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i know nothing.  
> this might contain some spoilers for got season 7  
> and some serious bullshit.  
> love ya all xx

It’s so gloomy and everything was sad. A huge wave of emptiness washing you over in the middle of a sentence, a wave of nausea choking you down while you’re drinking your morning cup of coffee, waking up with a deep, hollow nothingness in your gut, everything coming in slowly, rooting itself deeply into the core of your being and then quickly coming out, leaving you breathless, sweating on the floor.

And the thing is, it’s nothing palpable. Nothing you can point a finger at and say, here, see, this is what’s causing me pain, this is what we need to focus on and destroy it.

Especially since it’s not even pain you’re feeling. It’s inexplicable. And it’s stupid. Because no one cares. Who wants to sit down and talk about your feelings when more pressing matters are on the table? Are your feelings going to cure cancer? Feed the starving children in third world countries? Make everlasting iPhone batteries? 

That’s what I thought.

The real world doesn’t care that you don’t fit in. Many haven’t and they’ve either accepted it and moved on or melted into the shadows, never resolving their problems but choosing not to bother anyone with themselves and their inner turbulences. Go with the flow.

That’s why Louis was standing at the art gallery, at yet another exhibition of Zayn’s sister, surrounded with people who passed by with glasses full of champagne and shallow personalities.

Her art was remarkable, Louis had to give her that. The glass sculptures really were amazingly detailed and her technique was getting better and better.

But the crowd she presented it to was as transparent as her art. And Louis couldn’t shake the feeling she herself was on the same level.

Louis appreciated talent, persistence and endurance, all the qualities she as an artist possessed. But that was it, there was no more to it. He might be a bit pathetic, but he prefered an art piece having a  _ soul.  _ Make him feel something dammit. Be unique.

But he loved her nevertheless because he knew she felt pressured into doing something outstanding, coming from a family of overachievers, and knowing everyone looked like they’re miserably failing at life next to Zayn, he counted this huge even as a success at her career. Having the press and well known artists and celebrities who want to be seen as something more than just another brick in the chaotic wall of fame, bring some class to their name, attending one of her shows was certainly something. 

But having Louis standing in front of a glass replica of Michelangelo’s David felt like torture.

David himself looked in pain. 

Seeing that piece of art in person, in white marble years ago made Louis cry.

He honest to God shed tears at David’s, what he felt like was, shy posture, haunted eyes, creased eyebrows, tense body, everything embodied in cold white marble that didn’t make one feel cold at all. He felt an urge to hug the statue. Hot tears streaming down his face lit a fire in him. Knowing that that piece was made by warm human hands, transmitting their energy into the big rock of limestone, bending the rules of nature, using what nature has given to a man to make something even more beautiful, or in case of David, narcissistically, carve human perfection into eternal divinity, leave for everyone to admire and think of themselves as a warm body David used to be.

Seeing a twisted shape of another man’s head through David’s torso didn’t feel special at all.

Everything felt sterile and Louis hated that the whole show seemed very Chuck Bass themed.

He endured it for the sake of his friendship with the family, and for the support he felt he needed to give to Zayn and his sister. There was nothing more terrifying than presenting something to someone and them not liking it. For an artist, that feeling was multiplied. He knew some artists needed approval, doubted themselves, especially in an age where it feels like everything’s been said, described, painted. Everything’s been already seen, there is nothing someone hasn’t thought of before. Not even your thoughts are original. Some peasant at 15 century Romania countryside must’ve gone through the same train wrecking thought process you’re going through. They just weren’t able to write it down, paint it, share it in any way,  _ because no one cared. _

So in a way, Louis felt happy for her art, after many more minutes staring at the sculpture of David he felt proud of both her and some artist’s workshop klerk back in 1896 Italy who thought of doing a replica of one of greatest master’s works in glass, but he was too afraid, didn’t have enough money, enough support, didn’t feel like his art was  _ enough.  _

With a sudden wave of sadness he wanted to be carried back to time to just give that man,  woman, a hug and say that there will come times when everyone’s ideas will be appreciated, everyone’s voice will be heard as long as they shout it loud enough. No matter how fucked up today’s world is, it’s still the best humanity has achieved since the existence of time. And they keep progressing. They’re on the right way. Some stumble, not everyone is doing great at contributing to the growth, but as long as some try and succeed, everything will be alright. Louis had high hopes for his fellow humans. As long as they don’t all act like snobbish apes he’s been surrounded by his whole life.

Maybe Zayn’s sister was actually a reincarnation of that 1896 klerk who wandered through time and space just to do what they’ve always wanted to. Louis hoped so.

“You look like you’re not in this room.” Niall’s voice snapped at him, even though he was almost whispering. Being in an art gallery even made Niall suppress his blubbiness. That made Louis sad. The fact that some beautiful people had to control their personalities just to fit into a frame, not to scare others off, not make them uncomfortable. The pain for someone suppressing a part of themselves triggered something in the back of his mind he didn’t dare to look at or touch.

“Earth to Louis.”

“I was travelling through time, lemme have a moment.”

He could hear Niall chuckle and set an arm around his shoulder, making Louis feel grounded and warm. Safe enough to set his feet firmly back on Earth, far away from klerks afraid to express themselves and scared little boys in dark pockets of time.

“Okay, I’m back.” he said with a smile. “Are you having fun?”

“M’afraid not. I know this is supposed to be my scene, artistic and all, but I really… don’t feel it?” Niall shrugged self consciously.

“I’m kinda embarrassed to say that but guess I’m not for this fancy scene… It all feels too raw to me, you know? I’m talking shit here, aren’t I?” he laughed nervously.

“No, you aren’t.”

“Well I don’t know about that. Nevermind my ignorance, lemme introduce you to this fine lady. Gemma, this is Louis. Louis, Gemma.”

Louis turned towards a petite woman with bleached hair and big round, dark eyes, stretching a hand.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, I’m Louis.”

“Gemma.” the woman smiled.

“How do you like the exhibition?” she asked.

“Oh, Louis is among his people, this is his scene. Art and stuff.” Niall teased.

“Not my place of initial choosing but charming nevertheless.” he said politely. “What about you?”

“I’ve been to many similar events, I really appreciate Niall dragging me to this one. My brother is sort of an art freak so I guess it’s his fault as well. Even though I prefer classical masters.”

“Contemporary art brings a new shade to everything, it’s fascinating to watch how it develops through years, really.” he added seeming interested.

“True that. I don’t think we should underestimate the power of new age and what new minds have to contribute with their groundbreaking ideas.”

“Groundbreaking indeed.” Louis smiled knowingly, already laughing at an inside joke with himself.

“Sometimes though I think people like me, who are amazed by everything remotely artistic since we’re not able to do art ourselves, go over the top in order to fit into the crowd.” she whispered conspiratorially.

“Don’t say anyone I said that, I’d be terrified if anyone heard me, but I think most these people have no idea what they’re looking at.”

“It is fascinating to watch, isn’t it?” Louis laughed, surprised with himself. Being in a crowded place made him exhausted on itself, he never imagined he would be able to stand at the center of it all like the hosts did, shaking hands, receiving praises. Up until now he’s been hiding from anyone who might chat him up, knowing he was running on too few hours of sleep to carry off a polite conversation without snapping or bursting into tears.

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. But only if you don’t say I agreed with you.” 

“Your secret is safe with me.” she smiled as they moved on to the next piece, laughing quietly at the absurdity of twisted shapes no human could understand what they represented.

After a while, Louis was really starting to question his state of mind and the cruel tricks it played on him, allowing him for a few seconds to feel at ease with a person he’s known for less than an hour. It was probably going to get back to him, these minutes of pleasantness can’t be spent without some payment on his behalf. 

What did they put in those champagne glasses he and Gemma have been chugging down?

“I’ve always been kind of self conscious for not seeing what others see in this sort of thing.” she admitted after a while.

“You don’t have to be. Abstract art on itself is quite difficult to understand to those who aren’t in the same state of mind as the artist. Even those who are can’t always share the emotion completely. It’s different for everyone.” he mused.

“If you enjoy pieces of more defined nature that’s nothing to be ashamed of. Art doesn’t always have to be there to understand it. You can just silently admire it.” Louis sighed.

“As long as people aren’t offensive and rude just because they can’t understand something, feel it the same way, then it’s completely fine to just stare and wander off.”

“You sound like my brother.” Gemma laughed.

“He’s always on about respecting what deserves respect and leaving it be something that doesn’t affect you.” she fonded.

“And I agree with both of you. It’s just that… Sometimes I ask myself. What the hell, you know? Is this just another piece of art I can’t understand that’s obvious to everyone and the artist is practically screaming at my face with the emotion and everything or is it just yet another shit attempt at art that has no meaning?”

Louis cackled.  _ Yes.  _

“It’s really hard to pick it apart, isn’t it? I remember a few years back when there was this auction and they sold Newman’s piece…  _ ‘Zip’  _ for 43 million dollars. I, personally, don’t see anything in his art, but to each their own, aye? But this… It was a huge blue canvas,  _ nothing  _ on it except his signature in the corner. I was just sitting there going…  _ wow… _ ”

“A blue canvas sold for 43 million dollars?” Gemma seemed troubled. 

“Yes.” Louis snickered.

“That is why you shouldn’t be bothered for not understanding something others do. Don’t get me wrong, there are many ways of expressing yourself. No one should frame themselves into one art direction or music genre. Mix them up, create new ones, bring something new to something old or make a unique version of whatever makes you you. But there’s also this wish to be unique and find something deep in things that are obviously not. Take [Kirchner’s Dancing Couple of the Variety](https://www.google.ba/url?sa=i&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=images&cd=&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=0ahUKEwiX1K_jr9bVAhVDblAKHTeUAFcQjRwIBw&url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.pinterest.com%2Fjackiejones65%2Fernst-ludwig-kirchner%2F&psig=AFQjCNEEorNvI991yKc3UnPenpNjb1F2yg&ust=1502788015898604). Sometimes it’s just like people are trying to catch a goldfish in a swamp. Don’t try to catch a goldfish in a swamp.” he said, pointing a knowing finger at her.

“I’ll try not to.” she laughed again.

“What are you two doing?” Zayn came from behind, wrapping one hand around Louis’ waist.

“Refusing to catch a goldfish in a swamp.” Louis replied, taking a sip of his champagne.

“I’m not even going to ask.” Zayn laughed.

“Hey, I might steal that line.” a cheerful voice Louis recognized came from behind Gemma.

“Wouldn’t be the first one.” Louis muttered into his champagne and made Zayn laugh.

“At least this one warned you.” Zayn whispered and Louis giggled in agreement. Others haven’t been so kind, Louis had to give him that.

“What are you two conspiring? Zayn? I didn’t know you knew Louis!” 

“Just putting together a rhyme. And I might say the same.” Zayn grinned.

“We’ve only just met. I thought your circle of acquaintances ran only among high profile, profitable divas.” Gemma mocked.

“That’s why I’m hanging around with your brother.” 

“Heyy! Not nice! I’m not a diva.” Harry pouted, adorably. Or rather unconventionally for an adult man, yes. That’s the word Louis wanted to use.

***

What else Louis wanted to do with his words is to avoid the storm of vomiting them he was bound to release when he found himself joining the group of people to an after party. How he ended in a huge mansion, drinking expensive wine, watching high class people and celebrities snort off substances off other people’s skin whilst listening to loud music was a mystery.

He refused to say he went willingly. The only thing he wanted at the moment was to leave their presence and return to his dark flat to water his cactus plant that didn’t need much attention but he nevertheless liked to give it his full attention and watch it grow. As if it was growing right in front of his eyes.It was much more pleasant than watching a blonde man’s bulge in his pants grow as he grinded to a tall brunette to a music that wasn’t meant to be danced to that way. 

Much worse was the fact that even though there were too many people for his taste, but anything more than Zayn and Niall in his company was too much for Louis so he wasn’t relevant, people noticed him and approached, in hope of starting a conversation, or even worse things he wasn’t in the mood for.

“My God. Louis Tomlinson!” he heard a voice as he was standing in a kitchen too big and organized to be of any use.

“Owen Glasworth.” he called out with a strained voice. Holy mother of God. End this soon.

“Well, well… Haven’t seen you in ages! How’ve you been? People’ve been asking about you!”

“Have they?”

“Of course! You disappeared from the face of the Earth, haven’t heard a word from you in five years. You’ve been missing out a lot.” Owen smirked, his pale thin lips quirking in a way that made Louis’ stomach turn.

“I wasn’t aware. I’ll make sure to catch up then.”

“You most certainly will! Just the other day father has been saying he hasn’t heard anything about you from William for ages. He regrets deeply for your sudden departure. He’s always liked having you around. William promised to bring you along one time, but then again I haven’t seen him for almost two years…” Owen laughed.

“We’ve both been quite busy.” Sort of. 

“Well.. We were bound to part ways, but that doesn’t mean I don’t deeply regret it. We’ve had some great fun back at school.”

“Yes, indeed we did.” Who exactly was having great fun? Louis sure as hell didn’t.

“But the days of fun are over. Now, I’m to inherit father dear, he yearns to retreat from the scene.”

“I’m sure you’ll make him proud.”

“We shall see…” Owen laughed bitterly.

Insecurities, insecurities…

“What about you? What’ve you been up to?” 

“Oh… Not much, really… I’ve got a day to day job, nothing as grandiose as yours, we’ve both known your future is to be brighter than half of our class’.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere, Tomlinson.” Owen beamed.

“But I must say that it is true… I’ve had great expectations for Trevor as well, but he’s not only disappointed me but his father as well… I suppose he’s never been the same since his mother’s death…”

“That sort of thing isn’t easy to overcome.” Louis said uncomfortably.

“Perhaps… Not to be rude, but I think it depends on the strength of character. I see William and yourself perfectly fine after your dear mother has passed away. That is life and we have to fight what it throws at us. There’s no point in moping.” Owen said, sipping his drink, looking much like what he wanted to seem like, rich, powerful, strong man, not in the slightest revealing his true arrogance, insecurities and daddy issues. If only Louis hadn’t known him well.

“I’ve met him a few months back, he hasn’t been around much just like yourself. I think he’s moved to Cornwall. Can you imagine?  _ Cornwall?  _ God, I would go mad… I’m sure he is as well… But he’s been mad in the first place. When I spoke to him he seemed fine, a bit off but I’m used to him acting that way, there were way too many joints passed between us in school for me not to be used to his absence of mind. But this time he didn’t seem like he was under the influence, no. I think it’s become his full state of mind, to walk around aimlessly, moping, fearing to face the real world, much rather preferring to walk around the fields, feeding the cows or whatever he chose to do.” Owen laughed.

“Father said he spoke to him, they even mentioned you..”

Of course they have. Two spookiest men alive, talking about Louis.

“I’ve seen him, yes.” Louis breathed out.

“He’s mentioned it as well. Always saying it’s such a pleasure to speak to you. I think you’ve made his days for a month.”

“I’d like to say the same, but we spoke at my aunt Rebekah’s funeral so it would be foul of me to say it was a huge pleasure for me. If the situation had been different…”

He remembers the day perfectly well. William calling him saying that  _ that old bitter cow is finally dead  _ and how he cannot bear to see her face again even in death. So he sent Louis. And even though Louis himself hated the woman, he felt obliged. It was his father’s sister after all. And, he could never forget his cousin’s kindness in the moment of his father’s death. Charlotte has always been there for him, and the only relative he speaks to regularly. 

That’s why he, for Charlotte’s sake, endured all the stares and questions of people he knew she as well despised and were not ashamed at all to ask him inappropriate questions that if he had asked many years ago, aunt Rebekah would skin him alive for. Charming lady she was.

By the end of the ceremony he almost screamed at them to get on with burying her or he’d be the one jumping in the hole. He reached the car God knows how, driving back to his flat just to have a panic attack.

Trevor’s kind words and empty eyes were haunting him.

And Owen’s laughing ones were making him want to vomit. Everything about him, his arrogance, attitude towards everything he considers wrong, sleezy handsomeness, cold pale green eyes, blond hair. He can tolerate no blonds in his presence except for Niall, but he seems to gotten over that phase, meaning Louis can now deliberately hate blond men. 

“I know… He’s always had a knack for making others uncomfortable.” Owen laughed. 

_ So many things you two have got in common. _ Louis thought.

“I remember him being so weirded out when he found me at that party in Glasgow, snogging some guy. He seemed outraged.” 

Louis grimaced, not knowing what to say.

“I know if it were you, you would’ve taken it easily.”

“Well…” Louis shifted uncomfortably.

“This is a rather colorful crowd here as well… How’d you get here?”

“I was at the exhibition with a few people and I tagged along since one of them drove me. I insisted on walking back home but they wouldn’t let me.” Louis sighed.

“Oh… I couldn’t bother to come to the art show. But this gathering seemed to be promising. Now I don’t know what to think of it. I think I’m pass these smoky rooms with jazz music and people who prance shamelessly having sex on the couch.” Owen laughed sheepishly.

“I believe it’s something of a myth people want to be a part of. You know how grandiose lifestyles like that are shown to be.”

“I was a part of that lifestyle. So were you. There is nothing grandiouse about it, you know that.”

“Really? I was under the impression you were having fun throughout it.” Louis moved towards the window, suddenly too aware of Owen’s presence, his body too close, his breath too sweet in his nostrils, not allowing him to breathe.

“Well… Yeah… You’re right.” he laughed as he approached the window, musking Louis’ view with his shadowy presence.

“You can’t say you didn’t enjoy it as well… And even now. You enjoy it, don’t you?” Owen leaned into Louis’ face and all the air from Louis’ lungs was gone. He was breathing tar and he had to move away but couldn’t because his feet were glued to the polished floor and his eyes saw nothing but the approaching paleness of Owen’s face.

When he heard a crash, he assumed it was the explosion of his mind, the sirens were the police scrapping his brain matter from off the floor, and throwing it down the drain. For a second he entertained himself with the thought of Owen’s face covered in pink mush of his brain.  _ He won’t be needing aloe vera cleansing anymore. _

But it was just someone tripping over the bottles on the floor, conveniently distracting Owen long enough for Louis to flee towards the exit, down the stairs in front of a building of the exterior from which one would never assume that such extravagant apartment could be a part of.

Crouching down, he pulled out his cigarettes with shaky hands, inhaling deeply as if his lungs were unwatered plant and the smoke much needed water. 

Lighting one after another he almost laughed at himself. Why did he feel as if there was no air in a room so big, no space when Owen approached? He most certainly didn’t mean to do anything that would hurt Louis, but as soon as he felt his bodily heat mix with the other man’s muskiness, his brain started running a thousand miles back and stopped at one point that repeated itself, making him see things that were not there, confusing Owen with someone who was not Owen, in a place that was not London or that big shiny flat in a big ugly building. No streetlights were pointing at him as he shivered in the night air that swirled through his head, making haunting sounds through the empty memory lanes.

Once in that state of mind, nothing could pull him through, mostly because no one was never around when he was shockingly unaware of everything.

“Smoking kills, you know.” the darkness spoke with a deep, honey undertone.

So this is one of those times when his mind speaks to itself. Well, he was always a quite good conversationalist, but right now, he’s not good company even for himself.

“I sure hope so.” he murmured, drawing the smoke once more.

“That’s a lousy way to go.” the voice creeped closer, wrapping him with comforting darkness he closed his eyes to, hoping there will be many more dark times like these when his demons will speak softly and eat him away with their warm essence.

“And what is a better way to go?” he asked, amused.

“Well… Presumably at 60 years of age with a life you can say you’ve not wasted, with someone you love?”

His shaking hands started lighting another cigarette, not daring to open his eyes and destroying his demonish alter ego with uncharacteristic hesitance, which was quite refreshing comparing to the previous, much harsher ones.

“Not everyone deserves that sort of serenity.”

“Is there a better way to leave?”

“Dying of lung cancer caused by smoking or at 60 with a fulfilled life is like naming your child John. It’s unimaginative, boring and no drama lifestyle. Quite dull.” Louis said with a smile.

“Not everyone wants leave this world with a bang. Is there anything fulfilling in death?” the voice questioned, seemingly amused.

“But of course! First of all, death might be fulfilling if it brings an end to an unfulfilled life. Depending on philosophies that’ve been leading you through life, it might mean ending one to start a new, better one.” Louis mused, dropping down to sit on the concrete because he couldn’t give two fucks about the dirt. His knees were aching from the crouching.

“Isn’t there glory in ancient practice of  _ seppuku _ ? Now, that’s a way to go. If you think you’ve brought shame upon yourself and those who mean something to you, your masters, you realize you’re unworthy of staying among them, those who are lead by rules you couldn’t have followed or unintentionally broke, you end your life not to bring them any more pain, yourself, and start another life, assumably the one where you will not disappoint and do what you were meant to do in the first place. Living with the shame of your own existence is worse than dying.”

Louis was lost in haze and smoke and regret. He barely didn’t notice the warm presence next to him on the street.

“Even at the time when such practices were common, there were those who didn’t want to follow them. Because they valued life. There is a way of leading a life with more glory than death could ever bring you. And, there is a reason why that’s not common anymore.” the voice hesitated.

“Because it’s not easy to find a big samurai sword and kitchen knives just won’t do?” Louis laughed.

“No. Because destruction is not in human nature. It might’ve taken years for people to realize that life is a better way to find fulfillment, but they did.”

“Destruction is not in human nature? It’s the only raw thing there is to humans.” Louis snapped his eyes open and frowned at himself. And halted. Next to him was the least demon like creature since the beginning of time and Louis cursed his stupidity. Harry.

“I refuse to believe that every human’s first instinct is to destroy.” Harry smiled.

Louis smiled meekly as well, suddenly too tired to think.

“You think about this sort of thing often?” Harry questioned.

“Only when I’m left unsupervised with my own thoughts and the moon is full. I cannot be blamed.” Louis shrugged.

“Forever lost in your head?”

“Huh. I love that word. Forever… The fact that forever doesn’t exist but we still have a word for it and use it all the time. It’s beautiful and doomed.” Louis tilted his head towards Harry, admiring how not even the night and dimmed light could bring out an unflattering angle from the man. Forever beautiful.

“Can we speak in flowers? It would be easier for me to understand…” Harry smiled sheepishly.

Louis closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.

“You smell of gardenias.”

“It’s the perfume my sister got me.” the man laughed.

“Are you sure it’s not a perfume you stole from your sister?” Louis teased, opening his eyes, too weak to stay in darkness for much longer when there was a shining gardenia in front of him. He was amazed by himself and his stoic decision not to freak out at the fact of what they were doing. Talking.

“I choose not to answer that.”

Louis laughed.

“Smart choice.”

Louis should’ve done the same thing. Make a smart choice and not let Harry lead him back to his flat, laugh with him when he mocked Louis’ offer of  _ a hot beverage  _ (it was a chilly night, okay?), watch Game of Thrones and banter about whether Daenerys is a leader or someone who happens to have more charisma than her idiot of a brother who was doomed from the beginning ( _ Honestly Harold, even Varys had a bigger chance of becoming the mother of Dragons than Viserys. _ )  if she was just pointing fingers at people to do the obvious things, if it’s adorable or not the developing chemistry between Jon and her since they were apparently related ( _ In this show, incest is the least surprising thing there is, honestly. _ ) and judging how hot is Kit Harington on a scale of Edward Cullen to Brad Pitt. 

( _ Harold, you simply cannot say Brad Pitt is not hot. Are you out of your mind?  _

_ But I can say that Kit is hotter than Brad Pitt. At least more charming. _

_ You can’t say who’s more charming if you’ve never met them, we’re being super shallow here and judging them based on their looks. _

Which proceeded to Louis freaking out when Harry told him he’s met them both and Harry laughing at him like an idiot he is.)

They ended up on the floor, Louis staring like a creep at Harry’s sleeping form wondering what the hell his life was.

He didn’t know where his thoughts came from as he scribbled down pale words with tiredness beyond the bodily one.

He is the brightest supernova that creates new, dark galaxies and empty phrases.

 

_ Those eyes of yours could swallow stars, _

_ Galaxies and universes _

_ What hope did I ever have? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please say something. these few comments i've got kept me going. so your constructive criticism is going to do wonders.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> your comments keep me going. (i'm not moving at a fast pace, i know but it's really inspiring and touching that you take a moment to type a letter or two. you really don't know how much that means to me)

During the following months Louis' mood has stayed the same, just as it has been since he was 16, discovering that there were millions of devils inside of his head that both loved and despised the world.

Now, it was the same. 

He knew he was being clingy, irrational, but it took him two weeks to get over the fact that a dog in park didn't stop to pet him. Knowing that he had a living, breathing son of Apollo in his living space left him breathless, feeling dumb for doing whatever he did and he just didn't want to rethink and analyze because he knew he's going to find something that'll make him want to pour acid into his eyes.

Isn't it better to sit in one place for months (123 days but who's counting?),  _not_ thinking about a dove feathered raven, a lemon soul that made his mind fuzzy. Honestly, he got tired of the same thought process. Right now, he was ready to sell his soul for a fresh thought.

To occupy his mind, Zayn didn't help at all. All Zayn did was ask him for new drafts, show up high in the middle of the night just to say how fucking gone he was for someone whose name Louis was never able to catch since Zayn always fell asleep in the middle of a sentence, go crazy when his father asked for a press conference with Louis and Louis refused, just like he did every time. Who wants to put a face to all those melancholic words Louis' been vomiting for years? People feel more special if they read something they think is written by a ghost that's been peeking into their souls, a faceless voice that says things they could never manage the strength to say.

Niall's been busy with his new career, passing out from stress and alcohol, successfully avoiding his father who's been calling the bookstore at least three times a day even though Louis told him Niall's currently in Australia, and the store is still, unfortunately, in London, unable to move with its owner. That didn't stop him from calling though, and to be honest, Louis didn't mind.   
He sort of understood Niall's father wish to be taken care of, and their family's legacy to live on.

His father wanted the same, but fortunately, he didn't leave the unbearable weight of Tomlinson organisation resting upon Louis' shoulders.

Some people might think that Louis resents his family, especially since he hasn't spoken with his brother in months. Weird thing, family bonds.

Often he thought how God, Devil, whichever divine creature, bonded us with that holy obligation to our family members, people Louis was almost certain he would avoid if he weren't related to them.

Too often people suffer for the sake of their family. Too often Louis felt like a cliche housewife from the 50s whose only wish is to keep everyone in a good mood, never to step on the roses his ancestors left him to water. Damn those thorny gardens, people, family or strangers, draw your blood with too much joy, too often. 

That's why, in order not to make others bleed with his bitterness, he drew his own blood and bled on pages, soaked every absorbing surface until he was drowning in ink, blood and the smell of regret.

Dusty books discovered by a lonely boy in a long abandoned attic and flowers that've been stepped on and thrown away on the streets were always Louis' aesthetics. 

Living a life of long dead people that've left their minds in books and paintings, relating to ancient suffering, because, life after all is nothing but borrowing of bones.

 

Walking around his flat, too big for such a tiny man with too many corners where his little devils can hide and creep on him, then attack when they consider convenient, he collected cups that've been sitting on the coffee table long enough for water to start giving off funny aromas.

Sometimes he thought it would be better if he had something better to do than sitting in the bookstore where his only job was taking care of unmoving objects, walking to the park, drinking tea with elderly people, writing for an audience that he's afraid of; the sentiment he felt for the entire population of the planet Earth and doing the dishes.

If he were one of them athletic types, he would get rid of the bad energy in a gym, but alas, that was not the case.  
If he were working on a farm he wouldn't have the time for introspection, but this way, being a pathetic city boy, he was too tired from the gas fumes, cigarette smoke and his own thoughts.

Thinking, thinking, thinking.

People whose jobs are based on that heavy burden that Gods have gifted us must lose their minds by 30. That's a fact.

People who love life, just enjoy.

People who hate life, think about why they hate it.

Louis writes to taste life twice. Because he reckons if he tortures himself on Earth, when he arrives in front of the gates of Hell, Satan will pull out a chair and say,  _have a rest, mate._

Now, resting on the floor is a nice alternative. The philosophy that he's been living by is that one should never be too comfortable in their own skin. That's why he often sleeps on the floor, or next to an opened window, without blankets.

Very often he'd be looking with unfocused eyes into the distance and people would ask what's he thinking about. It always seemed too stupid to say the truth, nothing, my mind is empty and that scares me. That's why he had the tendency to think about something when dozing off in public, just so he didn't have to lie when someone asks him what's he thinking about. 

The empty state of mind he reserved for the times when he was alone, lying on the cold, hard floor of his spacious flat, hoping those little devils would come out of hiding and fill his mind, just so it doesn't stay empty for too long.

That's why he didn't notice the knocking, the footsteps, the voice. Until he was kicked not too gently, but not hard enough to justify the scream that came out of his mouth.

'Hello little brother.' William greeted with a self satisfied smirk.

While Louis was still trying to catch his breath he glared at William who was still smirking as he put his feet on the table, turning the tv on, switching the channels as if they were still in their family home on a Sunday noon, having some bonding time in the living room. 

All that was missing was a woman in an apron, fetching them a beer. 

'Why do you always have to get in like a fucking criminal?' 

Louis could hear his brother chuckling while he went into the kitchen to make them tea, since William didn't drink alcohol by choice, and tea was the only thing Louis had - herbal, strong, no sugar. The only thing they shared - tea preferences and some parts of their DNA chain. 

'Because I am one.' he said smugly.

'And because you weren't answering your phone. And your door bell is broken. And your lock is too fucking easy to break, you should take care of that.'

'Yes, I've consulted with all of my previous visitors that've been breaking and entering, they've had the same complaints.' Louis slammed the cup on the table, pushing his brother's feet off the table that've been resting on Zayn's draft he's been trying to make look decent for two weeks now. So far it has taken a shape of a mentally defected 6th grader's birthday card to his 90 year old grandmother with dementia.

'What brings you to this part of the hell? Did you kill someone?'

'Yes, my first instinct after killing someone is to hide at my brother's flat. The last place anyone would look for me.' 

Louis had to roll his eyes, William was summoning 16 year old Louis who was always annoyed by his big brother, his witty remarks and over protectiveness.

'This is a social call then? Been missing me?' the younger brother flashed his lashes, plastering on a fake flustrered look.

'I've had some business in London so I've decided I should visit since I'm in town.'

'I really wonder how you haven't ended up dead yet if that's your poker face, brother.'

'Wha-'

'Spit it out. Why are you here?'

Louis could see his brother musing if he should shrug off Louis' penetrating look with a joke but in the end he just sighed and turned stopped browsing the tv, turning towards his little brother.

'I've been worried about you.'

'Did you talk to Zayn?' Louis asked, maybe a bit too harshly.

'No.'

'Of course you have. I've been taking a little longer to finish the final draft so he thinks you could do something about it by talking to me. Of course.' 

Zayn could've just told him he needs it, he would've delivered this half arsed version and be done with it. It's not like he hasn't been publishing shit he's been unsatisfied with before, it's not like they haven't been baring his work, leaving it without its core, dumb and raw.

'No. Lou.' William faced his brother, placing his hand on Louis' forearm, rubbing his wrists, just like he did every time he noticed new scars blooming.

'You.. Haven't been answering my texts. I know we don't talk much, but it's been six months, Lou.  
Yeah, I did call Zayn, I admit that. But only because I've been worried about you. He said you didn't leave your flat for two weeks. I.. I was afraid something might've happened to you.'

Louis couldn't help but huff like a child he was deep down.

'What could've happened to lil poor me, that's been shielded by your bafoons for the past ten years? Do you not trust your minions to keep your brother safe?'

'You noticed that. Seems like your eyes are sharp only for the things you want to see.' William laughed bitterly.

'Yes, I've noticed four people who've been sitting at the same spot in the same cafe for the past month, William. Want a physical description of each of them? And what the hell does my selective observation has to do with anything?' Louis growled.

'Nothing. Nothing.' his brother breathed out, raking his fingers through his thick black hair Louis was always jealous of.

Something seemed to be bothering him, based on his tense posture and haunted eyes. Louis' anger vanished in a second, replaced by guilt for attacking his brother when he just seemed to be worried. 

What about, that was a million dollar question Louis didn't have the mental strength to find out. It was always something different, and Louis was still a coward.

'Is there anything I can do?' he spoke with a tired undertone.

'Just. Can I stay tonight?' William whispered, closing his eyes.

'You know the answer to that, William.' Louis said softly.

'Tell me though, is there something that should make me look over my shoulder more often?'

'Maybe. I've set enough eyes around you throuought the years to see each speck of dust falling on your cheek, but there always seems to be something that sneaks their way through.' he said with bitterness and guilt Louis just couldn't bare anyone feeling for him.

'Your eyes have been efficient, brother. There's nothing that can hurt me physically. You've done a great job of protecting me.' Louis reassured. 

'Papa would be proud.' he added softly.

'I'm not really sure about that.' William whispered.

'I am.' Louis said, pulling his knees to his chest.

'Maybe you're right.' his brother looked at him. 'I'm not sure I care though. I never wanted  _him_ to be proud of me.'

'That's a great character value, brother. No man should depend on other people's opinions. Especially those who are long gone and have no influence on this world anymore. You are your own person, living your life the way you think is the best for you and you seem to be doing just fine.'

_Lies, lies. Bad boy._

'Maybe.' William was looking at him with that deep dark blue gaze that made many people shiver, and Louis' heart shrink with sadness.

Moments of William's stormy eyes pleading Louis' unmoving shape to do or say something and Louis ignoring them in order to stare blankly into nothing. Quite a habit of his, great weapon to use when you need to avoid people and make them uncomfortable. (these and similar tips he learned in Awkward people, asocial quirks and tricks vol. 3)

Being awkward around your family isn't something he's a stranger to. Even William. No one was an exception, well, perhaps Zayn. But Zayn was an exception to so many things.

There wasn't a thing he was willing to do about it, though. 

Sometimes, even words, his only true friends in this horrible dark pit people enjoyed calling life, betrayed him.

Sometimes, physical contact, actions Louis shivered from, claiming oils and bacteria in stranger's skin reeked and made him itchy, was the last resort.

Sometimes, he would use all his mental power, the energy he was sure if he ever directed in a right place could empower a thousand light bulbs, and initiate physical contact, like he did when he was younger, and didn't develop any of his  _quirks._

That's why he scooped his much larger brother into his arms and hummed lowly while pulling his fingers through his raven locks, lulling him to sleep.

'Will you ever forgive me, Lou?' William whispered, his voice pained.

'Maybe, one day, Willy.' Louis replied sadly, feeling his brother's tears on his hand as he nuzzled into him.

'Thank you.' he said hoarsely.

'What for?'

'Giving me something to hope for.' William said before going lax in Louis' arms, his breathing evening out, leaving Louis to stare through the window, waiting.

What for? What was he waiting for?

The same thing William was.

_Hope._

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if there are any mistakes, blame them on whoever you want  
> please leave comments and kudos (i feel like i'm selling soap when i ask this) bcs it means the woooorld

_"What do you want to be when you grow up?"_

 

_silence_

 

_"Happy?"_

 

_silence_

_._

_._

_._

_._

_"Brave."_

_._

_._

_._

_._

Oh how he wished he could stop being a coward. How he wished he didn't fear the most stupid of things, like ordering a cup of coffee, going into crowded places, introductions, conversations with strangers, sharing opinions fearing he'll speak too much, too loud, too stupid. 

It's not as simple as just doing it, as many people have kindly advised. No. 

There might be the wish of connecting with the world rooted deep inside of you, but something much bigger, scarier is overshadowing it, suffocating you, overflowing with guilt and painful fog that stops you in tracks, makes the air turn into a thick, tar like substance that travels up your nose down to your lungs, stopping your blood flow, shaking up your brain, sticking your thoughts into one messy pile of nothingness where it seems you're back to your primal instincts when there are only basic needs that your brain can tend to because everything is off track and you sound like a broken record to yourself and look like you're a mentally insufficient to an innocent passerby. 

And it feels like you can't move because your feet just won't move, and your mind doesn't seem to be able to think of anything than 'air, i need air'  and the world is spinning and spinning and in an instant it ends sitting on your chest, and you're suffering under the weight heavier than Atlas is before you stumble and fall.

Anxiety?

No. Cowardice.

Explaining won't do. 

Unique people are different.

Is anyone really different?

There is no way one can be unique in a world as big as ours. In an universe as big as ours. There are many people who are different, but only the chosen ones can be called unique.

Because, unique is different, yes, but it's also - good different, quirky.

Artists are different, confident people are different.

Anxious people are bad different.

Anxious people are cowards.

Anxious people are targets.

Louis has always seemed to be a target.

Why?

Because he was a coward.

***

_"Louis, come here." his father called out from behind his desk, making him stand up from the piano where he was scribbling down notes._

_"Yes, father?" he approached, standing with a distance he deemed comfortable enough._

_His father was always sharp and stern around everyone, only here, in his safe space, did he allow himself to show deep creases on his forehead and exhaustion in his shoulders._

_"Will you sing to me, son?"_

_"Of course, father." he replied. "What shall it be?"_

_"Whatever you wish." Richard smiled tiredly._

_"Alright." Louis said and sat on the floor and sang the first thing that came to his mind._

_"There is a swelling storm_  
_And I'm caught up in the middle of it all_  
_And it takes control_  
_Of the person that I thought I was_  
_The boy I used to know_  
_But there, is a light_  
_In the dark, and I feel its warmth_  
_In my hands, and my heart_  
_Why can't I hold on?_  
_It comes and goes in waves_  
_It always does, it always does_  
_We watch as our young hearts fade_  
_Into the flood, into the flood_  
_The freedom, of falling_  
_A feeling I thought was set in stone_  
_It slips through, my fingers_  
_I'm trying hard to let go.._."

_As always, his father's eyes were glistening with unshed tears when he finished._

_"Yours?" he asked with a hoarse voice when Louis stood up and went back to sit by his piano._

_"Yes." the boy replied._

_"Have you been working on a melody for it?" Richard asked as he approached the window, looking out into the darkness that surrounded their isolated home, shades of black darker in the places where trees, showered with divine tears shivered because of the wind, and the atmosphere that was ever present in the Tomlinson household._

_"I have." Louis said without looking up from his scribbles._

_"What do you think, son, how does silence sound like?"_

_Louis wasn't surprised by his father's bluntness, it was in times like these he voiced his troubles no matter who was present in the room. He's heard him asking for the universal answers when he knew there was no one in the room because Richard never expected an answer. It was welcome, yes, but not necessary. Some things are never resolved, we shall deal with them in the next life, maybe._

_"Like the sound of knocking from the bottom of a grave."_

_Richard turned away from the window, chuckling._

_"Who will answer a dead man's silent plead to open the gates to life?"_

_"No one, because the living hear the silence, father. No one listens to the dead because the sound of life is deafening."_

_"You won't be letting me peak into your world when I'm gone, Louis?"_

_"No, father." Louis smiled sadly._

 ***

_"Be a monster with wings and claws and sharp teeth and venom squirting through your eyes. When they break your wings, fight with claws, when they blind you, bite their dicks off. Never give up." Trey, William's best friend had said to him once, when they were sitting on the floor of Louis' room after Trey heard him crying through the door upon leaving and like every well mannered young man from highly respectable families with prides bigger than their dicks, he barged in without knocking and comforted him, knowing that this was one of the times when Louis felt physically and emotionally drained because yet again, he was punched and kicked for being who he is._

_They didn't look down on him just because he was gay, no._

_It was because he was weak and didn't see the point in getting involved in things he never asked for._

_Some considered him an abomination._

_An openly gay abomination, yes._

_'Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. father Pius, you've been right.'_

_***_

_But how to know what is right? To be tough or gentle? To hide or speak up? If you hide, they sniffle a secret out. If you speak up it's even worse. Because who are you without a secret? Everyone needs their secret._

_It was never his intention to keep one of the most vital parts of himself a secret._

_But they stamped on it, dirtied it and made him lock everything in a skull shaped box, throw it in the acidic ocean of their presence to feast on and flee._

_The only thing that made him think of everything that he left behind, and gave him hope for a less dark future were his father's words, spoken on a night long ago, while he was under the influence of stress, moonlight and Macallan M._

_I_ _'m a thinker_

_A talker_

_A runner_

_A walker_

_An eater_

_A sleeper_

_I walk through thorn_

_and storm_

_Fire and war_

_But crumble_

_under the weight of love_

_***_

 

"Louis?"

Louis never  _shrieked_ per se, but he did often let out a sound he claimed was unclassified by the acoustic branch upon being startled in any way. Call it a survival instinct, paranoia, no one really cares.

"I'm sorry! I thought you heard me coming in, the bell could raise from the dead." 

Louis felt like he was rising from a bath in a bathroom that had only one wooden window that let the sun under the water where he lay in a moss green bathtub, breathing steadily, fully clothed, floating in the tiny space of the tub that happened to be the only thing in the room, right at the center, where he could sit upright, come up from the water and blink at the marble hands that were reaching out in front of his eyes, the sun shining through the paleness of the skin of a creature that could only be called Ezekiel. 

"Are you alright? Do you need a moment?" the calm raspines of the Ezekiel spoke from somewhere Louis didn't dare to look.

Humming, he reached for the hand that was in front of his face, basically offering. 

It felt rather weird for Louis to touch people most of the time, but exciting as well. So many types of skins, light, dark, here or there on the melanin spectrum, dotted with freckles, age spots, scars - deep, wide, faded, new, bandaged, open; tattoos, tiny, silky hairs that could only be seen under the sun light, as if looked at under a microscope, as if they rose in goosebumps, as if they awoke under the sunlight, bathing in the vitamin D and Louis' attention.

This hand, though. This hand felt... nice. It felt gentle in his own hand. Huge, in comparison to his own, but oh so gentle and soft. It wasn't like touching those silicone straps girls had on their bras that were there to make them stick to the skin, it was as soft, but not sticky. He's never touched a cloud so he can't say it was as soft as a cloud, and he googled already that clouds were water, and even though the skin of the hand seemed to be hydratized, it wasn't wet. 

It was firm, like one of them fine materials 18 century aristocrats would kill for.  

He liked the fact that it laid in his hand, relaxed, that Ezekiel wasn't creeped out by his behavior, but it was hard not to try to feel the softness of a hand that pulled him from under the water of his abandoned vintage mental bathroom. And the rings were pretty. He loved the rose one the most. It looked like something that would bloom and give birth to a fairy child. 

He knew whose hand it was. 

"Do kings of the elves drink coffee?" he asked, looking up at Harry who was leaning against the counter, drawing the fingers of his free hand that wasn't usurped by Louis over Louis' bare forearm.

"The Brazilian ones do." Harry said casually, still tracing the spaces between Louis' tattoos.

"You would know that because you've been a part of one of the diplomatic visits to the Brazilian elves?" 

To Louis, Harry seemed like he would be a very good elvish diplomat. 

"Yes, there's a conference every year of the elves and last year we were meeting in Brazil."

"And I guess that's where you share opinions and get to know each other's cultures?" 

"Yes." the man nodded, curls slipping without him paying them any mind.

"Meaning you've tried coffee during your diplomatic visit to Brazil last year?" Louis wondered, "I mean, I think they would even consider it rude if you refused since it's one of their most important trademarks."

"One of their most important trademarks is rain water that is very useful in battle since it's acidic to trolls and elves can do wonders with it, potions especially, but yes, you're right about both."

"I like being right." the smaller man stated randomly, "Does that mean coffee with rain water has super powers?"

Harry chuckled. "Sort of."

"Cool." 

"Yeah." the elf breathed out.

"Wanna grab a coffee? Almost as good as the elvish." Louis smiled.

"Sure."

They drank coffee. Harry laughed at Louis when he said sugar ruins it and put two more. Louis wanted cream, no sugar. It tasted better. Harry made a funny face when he tried it. He preferred his coffee with at least bit of sugar. Louis wasn't ready to compromise. He won't put sugar in his coffee. It made his brain foggy, the sugar. And cigarette with a sweet coffee was never good for him.

"Are you afraid of germs?" Louis wondered as he sat on the bench he claimed his but never carved a name into. It seemed like natural order to him, and as if everyone was aware of it.

"Nope." Harry sat next to him, stretching his black cloth enveloped legs far in front of Louis'. 

"You look like an Ezekiel today, you know." Louis said as a matter of factly as he put his legs over Harry's and laid down on the bench. It was a little wet from the rain and a drop fell onto his forehead from the tree above them.

"What makes me an Ezekiel?" Harry smiled into his coffee, looking at the boy with the corner of his eyes.

"You always look elvish. Ethereal. I'm just picking names that suit you better. Once, you were Erasmo because you looked like a secretary of the queen of fairies. Today, you look like the prince of elves."

"You look like a pixie."

"I know, it's the size and the hair." the pixie said calmly as he lit a cigarette.

It felt nice. New. Louis loved it, even though he wasn't a fan of new things and changes. He preferred security in life. Harry was new, but he seemed safe. 

Louis could be wrong, of course, but this is a mistake he was sure he won't regret. 

"I want to get a tattoo." he got up from Harry's lap an hour later and almost fainted when the funny dots covered his sight. It calmed quickly though.

"Where are we going?" Harry got up after him, walking behind him calmly, slowly, smiling at the man in front of him.

"Zayn."

"Okay."

***

That night Louis fell asleep on Zayn's couch with Harry behind him, the large hand with rings and rings laid on his hip as he slept on Harry's arm, careful not to touch the covered area of Harry's (and his) new tattoo. 

Coffee beans.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't forget to leave your comment and tell me how awful it is just so i know  
> no pressure  
> love y'all xx  
> Update: the song Louis sings to his father is Dean Lewis' - waves


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> please don't be mean. <3

Harry was a busy man. He has duties. He has an empire to lead. He has people to manage. But lately, all his mind seems to be focusing on are the two coffee beans on his inner left wrist. He could almost smell the coffee, the Brazilian rain forests he's never been in, hear the sound of wings and feel a feather brush his eyelids every time he closed his eyes.

Louis.

Always on his mind.

After months of thinking about the creature, the outworldly spirit he had to make sure is real, had to ask Zayn if both of them saw the same cerulean eyes, shook the same hand of a man who stood in front of Harry like a statue, only to be admired, never touched. Harry wasn't even ashamed to admit he was shaken with the encounter. He's never experienced anything alike, he's hasn't considered that someone might be ashamed of their reaction to a simple meeting. 

But it shook him to his core, it felt like an earthquake that left cracks on the firm ground of his soul that used to have unbendable defense iron poles that cambered upon a touch.  

It both fascinated him and scared him. But he felt high of the feeling of the boy's presence and couldn't, simply couldn't stay away. 

That didn't mean he lost all his composure. Of course not. It felt odd, but he had to do a check up on Louis. He had to inform himself, which wasn't something he didn't do with everyone else, but with Louis it felt different. All the information he got was generic and so uncomplimentary to the boy who was much more than black letters on a white paper. He wasn't faceless, he wasn't like everyone else, he couldn't be in the same data base as everyone else because he wasn't like everyone else, he wasn't. That was Harry's personal opinion but he was certain everyone around him would agree, obviously.

Louis William Tomlinson. Son of Richard Phillip Tomlinson and Rebekah Georgina Duncan. That bit surprised Harry a great deal. Louis didn't seem like he was raised in a family of art dealers. William, Louis' brother, whom Harry had had the pleasure of meeting, fitted the expectations much better. 

There wasn't a type you would fit into that category, of course, but Harry knows Louis isn't in it. 

He just isn't.

But after all, William was different as well.

He was cold and distant with everyone, but Harry witnessed moments when William expressed such tender feelings it took Harry's breath away.

Just like Louis did. 

But William had an army of people protecting him, William was in the business and he couldn't wear his heart on his sleeve, Harry understood that, he was the same. But if he recognized Louis, so could many others, and that made him very uncomfortable.   
The crowd that surrounded William Tomlinson was not a pleasant one. It wasn't as vile as the one Harry was in, but it was much crueler. All the posh faces and cold attitudes that cared of nothing else but getting the job done, delivering the next piece, without caring if they have to end someone's existence if the information leaked to the authorities, the fact that many corrupted high profile personas were in the job, the fact that they were all powerful enough to hide their own existence, undetected, unaffected, made Harry's blood run cold. 

It was a dangerous crowd. 

It was a crowd you have to protect your closest ones from because their wars aren't like mafia wars Harry participated in where you know where you stand, who's your enemy, when and where the enemy is attacking. No, it wasn't. Harry always avoided mixing with them because that's another level drama he didn't have the patience for. 

But these coffee beans... Damn the coffee beans.

***

"So, Harry." Louis started, "what have you been digging about me and what has you all wrinkled and worried for the past few days?" 

Harry would've been scared about the boy's mind reading abilities if he weren't fascinated by the way he was currently eating gummy bears. 

"What  _could_ I discover about you that could worry me?" he tried, just to see Louis' lips move more, and to avoid the direct answer, obviously.

"Well..." Louis stopped eating for a second to think, turning his head to look at Harry, looking ridiculous with his head hanging from the edge of the couch, "you could find out about the prostitution thing. Or the five children I gave birth to. Or my evil twin." 

"It's the kids." Harry mocked, laughing at the thought of a person who picked out a handful of yellow gummies and refused the green ones because they were apple and that apple isn't a good apple, it's generic apple, and besides he doesn't even like apples, take care of anyone else besides the cactus he had. And named.

"I knew it. I told them to hide in the basement when we have visitors. They never listen. I'll have to read them scary stories before bed again to teach them a lesson." 

"That's a cruel thought." 

"Oh, not in the slightest." the man said with a mouthful of gummies, "my father used to sing battle songs to my brother and I before sleep and we didn't turn out to be serial killers, did we now?"

"That's very peculiar." 

"Will is a peculiar guy, as you already must know." Louis said, standing up to get a glass of water, leaving Harry dumbfounded sitting on the floor. 

"Yeah.." the curly man coughed, "he's actually quite nice when you get to know him."

Louis returned, face planting on the couch, with his feet dangling over the edge, wiggling his toes.

"I know. We've had the pleasure of talking on a few occasions." 

Louis' voice was muffled but Harry could hear the laugh in it and felt lot less mortified. 

Why he felt afraid of talking to Louis about this, when it was always easy to talk to him about anything, or why he felt like this is the strangest thing he's ever experienced, he couldn't tell, but alas. It is what it is.

"Yes, I assume, with him being your brother and everything... You must've crossed paths."

Louis looked up at Harry with a smile in his eyes that made the man think of things never thought by a decent man.

"I think you're tense. Why?" 

Why? Jesus, Louis, why? Because? Because I found out things... Things about you and your family and your friends, things that should terrify me, call people to give out information about you, make me want to kill you. Instead, they made me sad, sad, so terribly sad.

"I'm sorry." 

Harry apologized.

"Why?" Louis' lips turned into a tight line. Harry could see his jaw clenching. he was afraid Louis' teeth will break.

"I'm sorry I was afraid to talk to you." the older man licked his lips, "I'm sorry I'm sad." his eyebrows furrowed, he didn't want to sound like there were tears stuck in his throat. He didn't know why, but he felt like he might sound like that. "I'm sorry you're sad."

"There's no reason to feel any of that."

Harry hated this. He hated how Louis' voice turned into something... different. That hasn't happened yet and it scared him. It scared him shitless because it meant Louis was experiencing an emotion he's never shown before Harry and that made him nervous. It made him want to claw at the skin behind Louis' left ear, because it seemed like the voice change came from there. 

"You can't stop me from feeling, darling." 

"Will the sadness go away if I told you?" 

"It will go away if yours disappears as well."

"I feel no sadness."

"But you feel no happiness either."

Louis smiled. It was a strange smile. It twisted his face. It didn't do anything to his face besides stretch the mouth. That's not how smiles worked, especially Louis' smiles.

"I feel... sometimes." 

"What do you feel?" 

"I feel hot. And I start to sweat. And then I hear this noise. It's unrecognizable to anyone who hasn't heard it. It sounds like a whale's mating call. But louder. Oh, how much louder." Louis laughed to a joke Harry couldn't understand. His palms were wet. 

"And then I feel the burning. And the immobility.

It's quite strange, I feel so many things, then they stop. They stop for a few hours, a day, two. In that period I really feel everything opposite from the previous feelings. Because it's all very intense, and colorful, then I come to a point where I only hear the remains of that strange sound in my head. And I feel blood on my face and cold hands that touch me. 

I can move, but I don't want to, you know? Your body wants to keep still. And you listen to your body because your mind is very weird at that moment. The mind goes somewhere, hides from you. And you shouldn't blame it, because the mind trusts you, trusts the people you trust, and then you lead it to a situation it can't get away from. I would run away from me too.

And later on, after so many times of the polar feelings, you coax your mind out of the hiding and you make a pact. Either to end it or escape it. You plan it, you do. For so long. You give up on your body because your mind is back with you and you're so happy, so, so happy. You don't even pay attention to the hot or the cold, or the sound, or the hands, or the inability to move. Your mind and you are happy together, because the mind has such wonderful ideas, it remembers, oh the things it remembers... Clouds and the wind. And the forest. And other sounds, other sounds that aren't the awfully loud one that makes you bleed. 

It's like a dream. You become so comfortable and then someone wakes you up. And you don't know what's going on, you look at all the light and dark disappear, and faces in front of you that you remember, and your mind says it remembers as well but the names, the names are difficult. Always had a problem with them, we did. 

They made me aware of my body again. That was strange. It was strange to dissociate from it to the point where I had to be reminded I own it and it owns me. I was moved, it felt like flying. And the time outside of the hot and cold was different. Everything became warm. And light. And I heard noise, as always, but it was different from the whale sound. I heard it before, before the whale sound but it had a name and I didn't know the name. 

I knew the name of the forest though. One day the warm changed. Something flew me towards the forest and I recognized it. My mind was so happy, it even stopped to talk to me for a few hours, it just thought about the forest, I could hear it. Wasn't very jealous, though, I was too busy looking at the clouds. 

It was so, so wonderful. You don't know how wonderful things are until you're deprived of them and left with only two or three basic feelings. 

And William was wonderful. His sound was the first one I heard after so much time in the echo of a whale."

Louis didn't seem as shaken as Harry was.

"He sang to me." Louis smiled.

"My brother sang to me."

***

The fact that Harry knew things about Louis' kidnap didn't lessen the blow of Louis' expressionless face while talking about it. It horrified Harry. The invincible, tall, strong, heavily tattooed mob boss was terrified of this horrifying perspective. 

He's always admired Louis' mind, body and soul.

But the mere thought that the event that's happened when the boy was a child affected the way he was now made him want to vomit.

Everyone enjoyed Louis' presence, everyone got a piece of him, admired him, the man talked to people, laughed with them, cried with them, comforted them. He was a selfless, tender being that seemed approachable, that seemed out of this damn world. Too pure to be walking the same dirt the first sinner has walked. No one would've thought Louis could deal well with a common cold with his delicate constitution and pale face.

When in fact he was kidnapped, tortured for two months when only 14 years old. 

Harry has read the reports. Sound torture. Damaged hearing. Burn scars. Bruises. Bondage. Absence of spirit for years to come.

If Richard Tomlinson hadn't killed the crazy sadist who's kidnapped Louis and three other kids years ago, he would've done it himself without a second thought. 

"Don't think about it. He's dead." Louis whispered in the dark.

Harry's arms tightened around the smaller boy, wanting to squeeze out the sadness and pain. He didn't think he should be tender. The boy in his arms has gone through more than Harry ever had.

"I would kill him a thousand times more."

"Father has taken care of it. In a rather cruel way."

"It's not like he didn't deserve it." 

"Sort of." Louis sighed, "He was mentally ill and couldn't deal with the fact that his father had a hidden basement with nude statues where he liked to bring young men and.."

"Jesus fucking Christ." 

What kind of people was Louis surrounded with?

"He was a priest. Father Pius. Very strict."

"What do you mean very strict?" 

"There was a boarding school thing for young privileged boys like myself." Louis sighed, "he was very strict."

"Do you know how fucking scary all that sounds?" 

Harry felt like he was the one asking Louis for comfort. 

"It was normal for us." 

Jesus. Fucking. Christ.

"Please don't think about it."

That's a mission.

"Sing to me." 

Okay. 

He'll sing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> louis was not raped.  
> kudos comments? thanks.


	9. Chapter 9

Louis reckoned that the story of his life would fill up two and a half pages of blank paper, if he were writing in really bold, big letters. Because it seemed more rustic, personal, to write it down in ink and now print it out in Times New Roman size 12. 

Up until he met Harry Styles his life was really dull, one would say. The biggest paragraph would be the one about his childhood, the trauma he experienced, and most of the things that concerned his family, mostly the things that weren't about himself, but other people occupying the blank pages of his life. And that was quite sad. The fact that there wasn't much to say about anyone without including the stories others filled up. He wanted to be the kind of person who would have something to write about himself, his accomplishments, his thoughts. But then, the sad truth was that the people surrounding us make our stories more interesting and believable. No one wants to hear about the lonely journey through the desert of a 23 year old's mind without the excitement an unknown man on a camel with a sword and a horde of soldiers cutting off his journey would cause.

And it bothered Louis.

He wanted to be selfish, to accomplish something big enough, think wide enough to have something to write about.

Until he met Harry Stlyes.

Since he met the man, all he wanted to write was chocolate mind and cherry bubblegum.

Once, he watched a National Geographic documentary about the underwater caves. They terrified him. Even though he was an experienced swimmer and loved water, the water life, it still terrified him. The unknown. All he thought about when thinking about the underwater universe were the pacific blue waters and colorful plants that would look great on a postcard. It never occurred to him that there were levels underneath the lovely blue of Niall's eyes he saw on the surface. Until he met Harry Styles.

Harry's mind was the deep unknown that hid something terrifying. As exciting as black holes. As beautiful as the Milky Way. All an untrained, disinterested eye could see was the Vantablack material of his surface. But Louis felt a pull, felt all his light being absorbed into it and never felt anything more orgasmic than the soft air collusion Harry's eyelash caused. 

He wasn't completely stupid. 

He knew that his infuriation would seem like a crazed man's desire to clutch to the first person that showed interest in him. He couldn't care less. He could feel his trouser pockets filling with fewer and fewer fucks about the outer world and loved the newfound confidence. He could do without the people that didn't know him. Understandingly, they didn't have much to know about, and many wouldn't want to get to the disfigured shape of his mind, which he appreciated greatly. It took him 9 seconds to feel the pain of rejection and continue forward as if nothing happened, focusing on something else. Most often, Harry's cupid bow or left dimple.

He wrote it all down, everything. And never shown to anyone. It's easier for him to remember, it's easier to write it down, forget, then come back to the bloodied ink and see that he's overcome the turmoil he'd felt at that moment. Then burn it away. All his memories had the apple and cinnamon scent of the scented candles he bought in the  drugstore two years ago and used for that purpose only.

It was his religion. 

The heaven in Harry's eyes as opposed to hell in his own.

Sometimes he ran through the archive of his memories with hands on his eyes, blind, but alive. It was a talent of his. Just as Harry's was to invent a new sort of metaphysics, to turn Louis' stone cold soul into a silky one. 

He was sick of being cautious. Being born as a warm creature who's treading water, he wanted to end it boiling, evaporating with passion, not turn into an ice sculpture that would melt away or be crashed. 

Once, Harry told him he was the sun. 

Archaic, so full of suffering. On some days, hiding behind the grey clouds, just to take a break from the ancient suffering it's been seeing since the beginning of time, repeating. But then it shines again, after getting bored in its isolation, missing his sinful earthlings. 

It was, it was wonderful. 

Harry's moon. 

In all the universe, Harry was the otherworldly projection. Time that devoured people, in a true manner, recycled, left the little light the humans need in the form of the Sun, the Moon, and Harry. 

It seemed pathetic, even to Louis. But it was something he would never change. The thunderbolts in his mind that lit up behind his eyes when Harry touched him for the first time. The dark room, the soft mattress, the curve of Harry's nose against his own. The shaking of his body after the ghost of Harry's lips passed over his. 

It took him so little time to realize he was nothing but a dragonfly pet in Harry's palm. 

His own existence and the existence of everyone around him melted in front of his eyes like hot wax.

He remembers saying once he was only honest when it rains, and Harry setting a tablecloth on fire just to activate the fire alarm and drench them both in water, washing off Louis' resistance. 

_I counted 4 stars they spilled their silver tears healing my broken arms covered with soul clenching scars_

There was a time when fear ran cold in his veins.

It took him a long time to stop hating his pinky toe.

It took him a long time to stop having panic attacks while sitting in a rocking chair. 

Though,

when it snows for the first time, it covers absolutely everything that it touches. It blankets everything in a blinding whiteness, and you realize you’ve forgotten how beautiful it is until you see it again. And when you look outside, it’s fresh and clean, like a brand new world sitting outside your door that’s full of opportunities and adventures that you never dreamed could come from a few flakes of crystallized water.

That's how he felt after meeting Harry.

Harry was his snow that made him see himself in a different, untouched state that made him believe that maybe, just maybe he could start over. That he could make his own footprints on the fresh snow. 

Not before Harry jumped in and made a snow angel on the surface of his heart, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the black i was talking about 'The "blacker than black" material, which absorbs all but 0.035 percent of visual light, looks more like a black hole on Earth.'  
> errr... i guess this is the end? there is no structure to this story because it's the reflection of myself and there is so nothing going well in my mind and no order or events. this wasn't meant to be a dramatic story, it was just... idk.  
> hope you didn't hate it too much  
> kudos and all, okay? THANK YOU ALL FOR ALL THE NICE THINGS YOU'VE SAID TO ME, THEY REALLY MADE ME HAPPY AND GAVE ME CONFIDENCE IN ROUGH TIMES I LOVE Y'ALL SO MUCH

**Author's Note:**

> comments.  
> opinions.  
> loads of love.  
> x


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